Page 27 of Finding A Way Back Home

“There will be other opportunities for funding for whoever doesn’t get it.”

“What is meant for us, will find us,” she recited like a reflex. I smirked, the words an old familiar echo of so many days past. Pix was nothing, if not consistent.

“You’ve said that for years,” I pointed out.

“I still believe it,” she shot back without bothering to shift her focus off the next bite. I watched as she popped the piece into her pretty little mouth, tracking a drop of sauce that fell from the corner. Thumbing it away, my fingers hesitated for one beat longer than appropriate before I realized I was still touching her.

Clearing my throat, I pulled my hand away from her now sauce-less lips. Before I could stand—which, honest to God, was my intention—she scooted the tray my way with the last Philadelphia roll still intact. She set her chopsticks down pointedly.

“Apology accepted,” she whispered, quickly snatching her Mexican food off the table and tucking it into the fridge below our desk. “Thanks for dinner. I’m going to jump in the shower.”

We both rose so abruptly that we nearly collided. Her face was an inch away from my chest, mouth popping open and eyes rounding as they slowly tracked up to mine.

“Sorry, I’ll just, uh—” Her words trailed off as she stepped to one side just as I did. Wincing, I made to move back, but we were like a couple of magnets, synchronized in our abysmal attempt to disengage. “Sorry, I can—” Again, her thought cut off, but this time we bumped into each other. Chuckling awkwardly, I clamped my hands down on her shoulders, holding her steady while I untangled my legs from the spokes of our chairs, stepping aside to grant her space to vacate as well. My heart was hammering faster than a nail gun on a new construction Coast Guard house Friday night at a quarter to five.

Her nervous, breathy exhale hit my chest, warming the skin through the fabric of my shirt a beat before she dropped her gaze to our feet, then nodded and turned for the bed, where her suitcase lay open. She hurriedly gathered clothes, but I was too busy staring skyward and blowing out a slow, pained breath to inventory what she escaped to the bathroom with.

Cursing internally, I slid my phone from my pocket as it buzzed.

Brexley

The suspense is killing me, Allen. Update?

Broderick

Could’ve gone better.

Brexley

Could’ve gone worse?

Broderick

I guess?

Brexley

Continue as planned. One step at a time.

Broderick

*Saluting emoji*

Tossing the phone onto the murder sofa as a frantic rodent burrowed in my gut, I reluctantly retreated to the bed, hoping I’d fall asleep before El made it out of the shower.

Elora

I am Elora Motherfucking Rhodes. So, what if he apologized so sincerely, equipped with a perfectly thoughtful little peace offering? Max, Alice, Mara, and I had a plan. And, at thirty-two, I was years past being easily manipulated by that stupidly perfect mug of his, or the equally stupidly gorgeous smile he wore when he was nervous. Deep brown sad puppy dog eyes or not. No man had a right to look so sexy while also pitifully apologetic. It wasn’t legal.

Blowing out air like a leaky balloon, I looked over my reflection one last time, giving my hair another scrunch and missing how easily the curls came out to play when it was shorter. The romper was blush and silky, the black lace hitting the top of my thighs. Bright and airy, it was perfect for Nevada heat—when I wasn’t crashing with my older brothers’ best friend. This was…conservative, really. I usually preferred much less clothing, for fear of waking up with the sensation of strangulation. Or that’s what I was convincing myself as I straightened the spaghetti straps at the edge of my shoulder. A deep V-neck traced against the tan skin of my chest, which now shimmered lightly after applying the tinted lotion. I cocked my head, lifting my boobs and wishing they were twenty-one-year-old perky instead of early thirties meh, but they’d have to do. A bra would defeat the purpose of the silk.

Geez, Max was diabolical. I kinda loved that about him. Smiling over the mouthful of nerves threatening to choke me before I even made it out of the glamorously tacky en-suite, I snatched up my discarded clothes, tucking them beneath an elbow before grabbing the towel. I whirled for the bedroom. Casually scrunching the towel in the ends of my hair, mostly for something to do with my hands, I made a beeline for my suitcase at the foot of the bed. Tucking them into the dirty bag, I prayed I looked casual as the metallic teeth of the zipper purred, and I moved it to the desk where we’d just been.

I could feel him watching me, like a heat across the back of my neck. Some fucked up kind of satisfaction wound through me then, curiosity begging the question; ‘is Max right’?

When I turned back for the bed, his full lips were parted, eyes half-hooded as they unabashedly trailed up my very bare legs. Sweet baby Jesus in a manger. Was it hot in here? 120-degree-Arizona sunshine-hot? My heart hammered, a nervous sweat pricking at my low back and suddenly tingling palms. Quirking a brow, I closed the distance as he snapped his gaze to my face before clearing his throat and muttering the tightest goodnight mankind had ever heard.

Broderick turned into the cutest six-foot blanket burrito in history, his back to the pillow moat—and me—as I slid beneath the covers. With one last fortifying breath, I grabbed the pillows from the center of the bed, tucking one between my legs and the other against my chest, strangled by anxious arms as I turned my back to his, and unsuccessfully attempted to find sleep.

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