Tessa finishes another bite and asks, “How are the books?”
I reach for a wad of clothes on the bed and start to put them away. “They seem okay.” After a full day in front of the fan and two days in some sort of clamp-press thing Theo left on my porch, all six books have mostly recovered. The only big loss is the fact that I can’t read most of Gramps’s notes in the margins anymore.
“That’s good. Still waiting for my bigthank youfor sending reinforcements.”
I scowl at her over my shoulder. “Those reinforcements were an absolute pain in the ass.”
“But did he help save the books?” When I don’t reply, shesnorts. “Exactly. Pain in the ass or not, he didn’t even need to hear the whole story. I said, ‘Fable needs help,’ and he said, ‘I’m on my way.’”
My fingers flex around a hanger. Ican’t look in her direction as my mind slips to a memory from my senior year of high school—me and Mia hiding in a bathroom, right before midnight at a New Year’s Eve party. Theo was at his own party but answered on the first ring. “We need help,” Mia whispered. Ican still hear his gravelly, rushed, “On my way.” He was there in minutes, and I get chills when I think about the way his sharp gaze tracked the tears on my cheeks and his gruff, “Wait in the car,” as he stalked farther into the party.
I told myself he showed up because his sister had been the one to call, but I’ve never been able to forget the sight of his broken and bloody knuckles on the steering wheel as he drove us home that night. Or the sight of my cheating ex the following week at school, with a purple bruise circling his eye.
Swallowing down the emotion in my throat, I turn to the phone. “Thank you, Tess.”
She tucks the wooden Popsicle stick between her teeth and smiles. “You’re welcome, Fabes. Now how do we make sure it doesn’t happen again? We need to get those books out of boxes and somewhere safe. Where are Gramps’s bookshelves?”
“Pretty sure Millie got them when we were divvying up furniture.”
“So, you need new ones.” I can practically hear her plotting already. She’s going to be on the IKEA website as soon as we get off the phone.
I give her a stern look. “If you deliver a bunch of shelves to this house, Iwilltell Mom and Dad about the Paramore concert.”
That sufficiently shuts her up, and I let her go so I can finish getting ready.
Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting on the front porch—mascara on my lashes and leather jacket on my shoulders—when headlights coast down the driveway. There’s a hint of nausea in my stomach, and I’m not quite sure what to blame it on, but blaming things on Theo works great, so I try that.
The truck motor dies off as I walk down the steps, then look up to see Theo skidding to a stop at the tailgate.
All the oxygen in the state vanishes at the sight of him.
The last bits of sunlight are clinging to the tops of the pine trees, but even in the looming shadows, his eyes gleam bright as they slip slowly down my body. Ifeelit like a hot trail that dips over every curve, all the way to my toes and back up.
“Damn,” he whispers, so soft that maybe he didn’t mean for me to hear it.
A dark gray shirt stretches over his broad chest, layered under an open blue-and-gray flannel. His hair is styled perfectly like he took the time to fix it for tonight. Dark jeans are molded to his muscular thighs, and I’m starting to wonder if it’s not actually the scrubs making them look so delicious.
My nails bite into my palms in an effort to stop me from reaching out to see how soft that shirt is. Or how hard the muscles are underneath.
He shakes his head as he steps closer. “You look gorgeous, Fabes,” he breathes, voice thick and husky.
The compliment burrows into my chest. It finds a cozy spot, to burn like an ember, warming me from the inside out. It’s dangerous—so fucking dangerous—how much I enjoy that feeling.
“Thank you.” I tilt my head, searching for a way to get us back on track. I’m off kilter. This night was supposed to be RIP Theo, and instead, it’s about to be RIP me. Murdered by the sex appeal oozing off my fake boyfriend... Imean business partner. Isettle for: “You look like you thought this was a date.”
His grin is cocky. “I think that’s a compliment, because I lookgoodfor dates.”
Dammit, I’m sure he does. Igive him a simpering smile. “Is that what those poor women told you?”
“Aw, is someone a little jealous?” His eyes glitter, and I fight the urge to pinch him. “Your blush is giving you away.”
Rolling my eyes, I turn away and walk toward the passenger door. “I’mpretending,” I reply haughtily. “Isn’t that the point in this whole escapade?”
A dark, taunting chuckle sounds behind me. “Ahh. Didn’t know we were performing already.”
There’s no way I’m jealous at the thought of him on a date with someone else. I’ve seen him with girls when we were in high school, and I’m sure he does very well for himself in those no-string arrangements he was talking about. Objectively, he’s an attractive guy. Devastatingly attractive, really. I’m sure he goes on lots of dates.
I’m not jealous at all.
