“That’s not six.”
“Overtime – uh, hellooo? Not everyone is loaded like you.”
“You should have texted me.”
“Why? You’re not my mommy.”
“I’m your fiancé.”
“My fake-fiancé,” she corrected pointedly and hesitated. “What’s that?”
“Well, it was a gift from your fiancé…” he grumbled and glared at her, shoving it behind his back. “But since this is fake, nothing, a joke to you then…”
“Are you serious?” she interrupted, rolling her eyes and throwing her hands up in the air. “I am too tired to deal with you, all your drama, and your mouth right now.”
“Apparently,” he agreed, frowning. “If you are too tired to text, you must be truly well-and-good exhausted.”
“Did we have plans? A commitment? Do you have your sports cup on too tight?” she shot out rapid-fire at him. “I’m trying to walk into my house…”
“A rental…”
“My rental,” she retorted, pushing past him to put the key in the door. “I’m gonna plop my butt down, kick off my shoes, and feel my butt spread on my recliner – to which you are not invited because you are in a pissy, rotten mood.”
“I am not…”
“You are.”
“Steffi, I’mnotin the mood,” he barked out and then mumbled something while walking away – with the package in his hand.
“SEE?” she hollered at his back. “If you can’t say it to my face, then keep your mumbling on your pristine side of the lawn, Dramatic Whiner…”
He stiffened and stopped mid-stride.
Her heart stopped in her chest. Maybe she’d gone too far this time, but even a negative reaction was something instead of him ignoring her and shutting her down. It was much better than being chided or yelled at like she was clueless.
“I’m right – aren’t I?” she goaded, throwing gasoline deliberately on the fire in order to get some sort of reaction… yet there was nothing. He stood there, holding the package that was in some sort of bag, not moving. It was the sight of him, back toward her, that didn’t feel right.
It didn’t feel…good.
“Drake?” she whispered his name, testing it on her lips for what might have been the first time. She always had a comment, a jab, a playful phrase coined from his initials – but not this time. There was a seriousness to it that was staggering.
She knew it – and he did too.
“I was worried,” Drake began quietly, not looking back or turning in her direction. “Are you happy now? I was worried about you.”
And he walked off.
Mic drop.
Drake admitted he was worried about her, and she called him a dramatic whiner for it. Steffi’s jaw practically unhinged as her lips parted in shock and her stomach gave a horrifying lurch, making her put a hand on it to keep from puking at the silent understanding that slammed home hard. He’d been waiting for her, on the porch, concerned for her safety – and she’d thrown it in his face. He’d been nothing but kind to her, generous toward her, and she’d treated him like dirt every time.
“Oh no…” she breathed, horrified as everything replayed in her mind like some nightmarish reel. She’d snapped at him, confronted him, taunted him, and while he’d given it back to her, there was an underlying current of something else there, something neither had touched on, something… fragile and vulnerable.
The smiles, the winks, the thoughtful things…
Her purse dropped to the floor as she yanked the front door shut, locking it behind her, and took off across the grass toward his house. She felt lost… almost frantic. Something was wrong, and she had no idea how to fix whatever it was – but she couldn’t leave it alone either.
Standing on his porch, she quickly banged on the door.
