Journey’s forehead wrinkles with a look of confusion. “Do you mean your ex-wife?” she asks.
“Well, her for one, yes, but—”
“You said you saved Pete, right?”
“I didn’t finish my story,” I say with a slight smirk. “However, I don’t want to upset you over the rest either. Obviously, it was a lot to take in all at once, and while I’ve become somewhat numb to it all, I need to remember that not everyone feels the same way.”
“What do you mean?” Journey asks, still looking at me with questioning eyes.“Do you want something to drink? My throat is feeling a bit dry.”
“Sure, I’ll have whatever you’re having,” she says, standing up to follow me into the kitchen. I didn’t think she’d be getting up too, but I should stop assuming. “Brody, what happened after that night?”
I open the fridge, feeling my throat tighten. “Why did you really run off last night?”
“I wasn’t lying. The pizza didn’t agree with my stomach.”
I pop the cap off two beers and hand her one. “Let’s try again,” I say.
“Do you want me to tell you I shit myself? Is that a turn-on?”
I wasn’t expecting the words to pour out of her adorable mouth, and I can’t help the bellowing laughter that erupts from my throat. “Wow. That’s incredible. Nice, nice. Um, well, that’s not what I meant, but I hope your bathroom has recovered since last night.”
“I’m not sure. I left the fan on all night and lit a match. We’ll see. Why do you think I’m at your house instead of my apartment right now?”
Damnit, this is why I like her. Why do I always attract trouble?”
Journey takes a sip of her beer, holding one arm over her chest as she leans against the fridge. I follow and take a swig from my beer. “What’s going through your mind right now?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Everything and nothing at the same time, an issue I often have.”
“I see, and I’m supposed to read between those lines, I assume?”
“It depends. What are you reading?”
“You just licked your lips, and you’re looking at mine,” I explain.
“So you’re good at picking up on cues,” she says.
“I know a thing or two.”
Journey takes a step toward me, and I take a step back, refusing to give in to the mind game she’s playing in my kitchen. She’s avoiding something, and I’m not sure what it is, but nothing is happening between us until I figure it out. “Am I making you uncomfortable?” There’s a hint of sincerity in her voice, but more hope than concern, in my opinion.
“Are you trying to?” I ask.
“Make you feel vulnerable?”
“That wasn’t your original question.
“Okay, let's try this,” she says. There’s a storm brewing in your eyes, and I want you to tell me about the pain you keep locked inside you.”
There’s a storm in my eyes?”
“I saw it last night when you were telling me about Pete.”
“And you think I’ll fess up to the girl who ran off halfway through my story because she had to shit herself, then cornered me in my kitchen to continue talking?”
“Yes,” she says, taking another step toward me—cornering me as I suspected she might.
Journey grabs at my elbows and urges me to move, switching sides with me, so she’s cornered in my kitchen. It’s more of a turn-on than a motivation to continue speaking about a sore subject. In fact, I take the opportunity to lean forward, reaching for a spot on her neck beneath her right ear. She allows my lips to brush against her skin before pushing her hand into my chest. “No, first you talk. I want to know the rest, and you’re standing in my way of moving from this spot.”
