“You need any help?”
She turns to me with a smile. “Sure.” She hands me a dishcloth. “Can you wipe the table?”
I grab the hot cloth and get right to work.
“You’ve changed.” She wipes a large pot dry. “I like that skirt.”
I blush. She knows. “Thanks.”
She cocks a brow. “So you and Blake…”
I’m not admitting anything. “We’re actually sort of getting along. Can you believe it?”
She smiles, but it’s not a happy smile, it’s anI’m worried about yousmile, tight and strained.
She inches closer, the large pot still in her hands. She settles it against her hip as she keeps wiping it. “What are you two up to?” she asks in hushed tones.
I shake my head and fiddle with the centerpiece on the table, a pretty autumn arrangement. “Nothing.”
“C’mon, Maeve,” she says. “It’s your big Sis you’re talking to here. I’m not stupid.”
I sigh. “Well, it’s all your fault,” I tell her. “It all started when we went camping. You throw us together in a small camper knowing we have a history. What did you expect?”
Her eyes grow wide, and her hand jerks to her mouth. “Did you? With the kids?!” She looks thoroughly scandalized.
“Oh no,” I’m quick to clarify. “No, we didn’t. Not then.”
She exhales a breath of relief. “But you are now, right?”
I nod and roll my eyes to the ceiling, readying myself for the speech.
“I don’t think this is a great idea, Maeve,” she says. “What is this exactly?”
I blush again. I really don’t want to share the details of my love life with my sister. “It’s just sex,” I whisper. “That’s all it is.”
She raises a brow. “Really? Knowing you, I find that hard to believe.”
I huff and turn on my heel. “Why does everyone think I can’t handle a little casual sex?”
She nips at my heels. “Because you can’t. You’re a romantic.”
“Well, Blake isn’t. He’s a total player.”
“Really? Is he?” she says skeptically. “I don’t see him that way. He has a big heart. I know he hides it well, but he’s a sensitive one.”
I mull over her words. Is he? I’m brought back to about fifteen minutes ago when he pushed me off him. There was so much pain in his eyes. Did I hurt him? What did I do?
“I just worry that you’re jumping too fast into this thing because of what happened with Peter,” she’s saying. “You’re not yourself right now, and you’re not making the best decisions.”
I let out a soft growl, just like I used to when we were kids. She’s always been like this, self-righteous and all knowing, like she’s an expert at life. None of us are. We’re all winging it. I know I certainly am.
“So he’s a rebound,” I argue. “Who cares?”
“He does,” she says. “You’re going to end up breaking his heart, and probably yours too.”
Breaking his heart…
Can Blake Taylor’s heart really be broken? Does a player ever care enough to be hurt?
