Page 19 of Mad Girl

I glared at her. “No one asked you, Karen. Mind your own damn business.”

As she stalked off, muttering under her breath, I spotted you, standing beneath one of the big orb lampposts across the pond, traffic sounds cutting through the air. When you saw me, your shoulders dropped, relief softening your face.

You made your way over to me, quickly enough to startle the squirrel, who scurried off in a blur of motion. You stared after him. “Were you just…feeding that squirrel?”

I pressed my lips into a firm line as I tucked the pouch of seeds back into my bag.

“It’s quite cold out,” you said, joining me on the bench. “Have you been out here all this time?”

“How did you find me?” I demanded.

“Michael.” You pulled out your phone and shot him a quick text. It read: You were right. I found her.

I cursed Michael under my breath.

“There’s a fire going at the house,” you said, slipping the phone back into your coat pocket. When you rubbed your hands together, I couldn’t help but notice. They were nice hands. Big and capable. Veins branching across the top. Not sure why I liked that, but I did. I eyed the tattoo between your thumb and index finger again, wondering what it meant. But to ask might give you the impression I’d accepted our living situation—accepted you—so I didn’t.

You leaned closer, your arm brushing mine. “I could make some hot chocolate—if you like that sort of thing.”

“No, thank you,” I said, breath fogging the air. “And I can make my own hot chocolate. I’m not a child.”

“Right.” You leaned back, hands tucked inside your pockets, legs spread wide. “Well, I suppose we’ll sit here until you’re ready to go home, then.”

“Will you always be this annoying?”

“Will you always be this hostile?” you fired back.

I crossed my arms with a humph. “I don’t like the way you say hostile.”

“I don’t particularly like your attitude,” you said, but your eyes twinkled as they raked over me, briefly snagging on my mouth when I pursed my lips.

“We could go back and forth like this all day.”

“We could,” you said with a wide grin, “and nothing would make me happier.”

For some inconceivable reason, my heart fluttered. “Just who the hell are you, anyway?” I demanded, and I didn’t miss it, Casey—the way your entire body went rigid on that bench.

“What do you mean?”

“My dad trusts no one. He doesn’t date. His only real friends are John and Libby, who he’s known forever. Then you come along—literally the only guy Michael’s ever brought to brunch—and my dad moves a complete stranger in with us in a matter of weeks.” I shook my head. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“I’m here to help,” you said.

“That’s what you keep saying, but my dad’s willing to give up spending time with me to have you here. I’ve barely seen or talked to him in weeks, and he doesn’t care.”

“He does care. He misses you. In fact, he told you that. But you’re so set on getting your way, you can’t allow yourself to hear it. He wants you downstairs, Elliot. He wants you speaking to him again.”

“You don’t even know my dad.”

“I’m getting to know him better every day—and I’d like to know you better, too, but you’re making it quite difficult.”

I rolled my eyes.

“I don’t have to be there every night. I’ll find something else to do occasionally. That way, you can spend time with your dad. Just you and him.”

“Whatever,” I mumbled, shivering as a bone-chilling breeze whipped a strand of hair across my face.

You stood, grabbed my leather backpack off the ground, and slung it over your shoulder. “Let’s get you out of the cold.”