Page 92 of Repairing the Wreckage

The following weekend, I’ve had all I can take of the skunky aroma of cheap weed. I’m eager to get away from the dorms and have some peace and quiet at home.

Remy’s truck isn’t here, so I pull my car as close as I can to the back porch.

Home sweet home.

I haul my backpack over my shoulders and drag my five-foot, blob-shaped bag of laundry out of the cargo area. It lands on the grass with a splunk. With some effort, I pick up the bag with both hands and waddle up the porch steps with it.

I fish my keys out of my hoodie pocket and find the one for the back door.

The door swings open before I have a chance to slide the key in.

My gaze lands on Griff.

No, on Griff’s shirtless chest.

The loose track pants slung low on his hips.

What the hell?

He’s been on my mind non-stop since last weekend and here he is standing in front of me like a dream. My greedy eyes gobble him up, cataloging all the familiar things and all the ways he’s changed. He seems broader through the shoulders, taller even. The tight cords of muscle flex in his arms as he stands back to let me inside.

I slick my tongue over my bottom lip.

His hair is longer than when he left, curling slightly at the ends. He’s always worn his hair on the shorter side, but I kind of like it longer. More to run my fingers through.

No.

Not mine.

Never again.

I don’t even believe he cheated on me anymore.

I never should’ve believed it.

Now I feel so guilty I can’t even look him in the eyes.

“Griff? What are you doing here?” I drag my bag of laundry closer, but he slides by me and grabs it out of my hands.

“Uh, I live here now.” He hauls the bag inside, closes the door, and drops the bag at his feet. “Thought you knew that.”

He runs his hot gaze over me, and I back up a few steps. The weight of my backpack throws me off balance and I bump into the counter.

“I guess Remy mentioned it. I just didn’t…” Expect to find you shirtless in my kitchen.

He raises a cocky eyebrow and crosses the kitchen to lean on the opposite counter. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“What are you doing here?” He pours thick white liquid from the blender into a tall cup but still somehow manages to keep his eyes on me.

“It’s my house.”

Ignoring my caustic tone, he flashes a tight smirk. “I thought you lived in the dorms now?”

“I do. But I still like to come home on the weekends.”

He takes a quick sip of his drink, still staring at me. I slide my backpack off my shoulders, setting it on the floor. My phone buzzes and I pull it out of my jeans pocket.

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