At the name, the pain in my frontal lobe upped. “Can’t do it. I’m busy. Gotta go.”
“Dammit, Max, don’t hang—”
I ended the call. As if I wanted to talk about my old man’s girlfriend. I had no idea why, but I couldn’t stand her.
Right, no avoiding my to-do list for today, Gym, Conservatory, shrink, and then the devil.
After trashing the music studio, I wasn’t sure they’d let me back in at school. But I had to get my final piece aired, which was all that mattered. I rubbed the piercing pain behind the scar on my eyebrow. Uh, fuck, I was in for another shitty morning. They weren’t true migraines, just something I was cursed with since the accident, along with insomnia.
Retrieving my pain meds from my tote stashed in the closet beneath the stairs, I dropped the last two pills into my palm. Damn. This visit I really didn’t care for, but I needed my prescription refilled.
Swallowing the capsules, I walked into the shadowy kitchen, rich with the aroma of coffee—someone was up. I tossed the empty pill bottle in the trash, got a glass and poured orange juice from the frosty bottle left on the counter and chugged down some.
Soft, draggy footsteps on the wooden floor reached me first, thenshewalked into the kitchen like a ray of light. Suddenly, nothing mattered anymore—not my mind hiding the truth of the accident, not my dislike of my father’s girlfriend, or not knowing if the music school would let me in again.
Totally oblivious to my presence, she dropped her cell phone on the counter and made for the fridge. She still wore the tight, mouth-watering top that clung to her chest, and boxers which revealed her shapely legs, making me want to do things to her, all involving my tongue. She opened the fridge, the light brightening the gloomy kitchen. Fingers tapping on the door, she peered inside and did that same hip sway as she had in the laundromat.
Christ, she was sexy. Like some exotic butterfly. The right thing to do would be to leave, walk out because I was too fucked up to even think about anything with her. But my feet refused to take a step away from the girl who was becoming my personal addiction.
She pulled out a squat glass filled with something that looked a lot like dirt dropped with cream, swiped a spoon from the drawer, hip-bumped it closed, and dug into the pudding. As she licked the glob off the spoon, a small appreciative moan left her.
The sound thundered through my veins and my body stirred awake. Fuuuuck! I shifted on my sneakered feet. “Is that any good?”
“Shit!” Her eyelids popped open, and her pretty, gold-flecked, amber eyes widened in shock. A streak of color darkened her cheeks. “Dammit, don’t do that!”
“Sorry.” Not giving her a chance to ignore me—or bolt, or whatever else she had in her arsenal of avoidance—I nodded at the glass she held. “What is that?”
“Nothing.”
She hooked the bar stool with a foot, dragged it out, and sat down. And there we had distance again, done so smoothly.
One thing I understood right then, if I wanted this girl to notice me, I had to behave differently. My typical smooth shit with others wouldn’t work on her. So, how the hell should I act? Usually, when I walked into any place, girls tended to notice me. But then Logan wasn’t my usual type, in for a good time only. She was older, more serious, and getting over a dickhead ex.
Perfect. Hell, easy was overrated anyway.
Now that my challenging path had been laid out, I switched on the light, lowered onto the stool opposite her, and let a faint smirk tug my mouth. An enticing floral fragrance with a hint of apples and turpentine drifted to me.
“Nothing?” I said as if we were still holding a conversation. “That’s something new. Not one I heard of. I have to taste it.” I set my OJ down, took her spoon from her paint-smeared fingers—no, not sleeping, working. Scooping out some, I leisurely sucked the creamy confection from the silverware. “Hmmm…”
She blinked, and her gaze dropped to my mouth, tracking my movements. My dick hardened. Thank the fuck I was seated.
“Oreos and cream,” I had to force the words out through a suddenly dry throat. “What’s wrong with coffee, bacon and eggs, cereal, or whatever it is girls eat for breakfast?” I asked.
“I’m not most girls,” she muttered. Gouging out some of the dessert with a finger, she stuck the creamy digit into her mouth and sucked slowly.
She’d done it to show me she didn’t need the spoon, and I wanted to drag her over the counter and devour her luscious lips. Instead, I nailed my ass to the seat and tried to get my body under control. “Yes, I’m aware of that,” I murmured equally soft. “It’s probably why I find myself drawn to prickly little hedgehogs.”
She lifted her head, eyes golden slits of irritation. “Of all the creatures in the world, you compare me to a hedgehog?”
At her snippy tone, I shrugged, handed her the spoon, and prayed she’d used the damn thing.
“You haven’t done anything to make me think differently. Do so, and I will. I talk to you, and you shoot up all those quills, not a very pleasant experience.” I picked up my glass and, as I drank the last of my juice, I stared at her over the rim.
Her cheeks flushed, she stabbed her spoon back into her breakfast, turning the entire mixture a gooey brown. Thankfully, it wasn’t a knife or anything else equally sharp. She’d probably have staked me in the heart.
However, there was something I had to know. “I don’t see any newspaper around?”
“I don’t read them. You’ll have to buy your own.” She continued stirring, gaze firmly glued to the mess in the glass.
