Page 37 of Downpour

Ray looked up from the recliner. “Hey.”

“So….” I looked around. “I’m here full time now…”

He tipped his chin.

“Can I ask?—“

Ray chuckled. “Has asking if you can ask ever stopped you from asking before?”

I felt a little sheepish at being called out like that, but he wasn’t wrong. “Was this your doing or your family’s doing? I just want to know how much I’m expected to ignore you.”

Ray didn’t let a hint of emotion slip, but I swear he was about to smile. “Cassandra made the call.”

My heart dropped.

“Oh.”

Before I could say anything else, he added, “But I told her to.” Ray tipped his head to the door beside his bedroom. “Guest room’s yours.”

I nodded and squeezed through the door with all my things.

It was neat, but clearly unused. There was a closet, a dresser, a nightstand, and a queen-sized bed.

The bed I had been sleeping on back at the house was a twin. A queen mattress was going to feel amazing. It had been made up with pretty linens in a soft sky blue. White pillows with tufted cases were stacked against the headboard.

On top of the nightstand was a plastic bag of blue and pink Sweet Tarts.

9

RAY

This was a disaster. I don’t know what I had been thinking when I requested that Brooke live here full time.

Actually, I know exactly what I was thinking.And what I was thinking with.

It had been three days and not a single one had gone smoothly. The upside was that my family had more or less left me alone. The downside was that this was the first time I had to ride in a vehicle with Brooke.

“Why is there a sticker on your dashboard?” I asked as I buckled my seatbelt.

Brooke plopped into the driver’s seat. Her denim shorts rode up even higher.

Fuck me.I looked away quickly.

Since she was living with me and only reporting to her boss through phone calls, she had ditched the ugly polo.

I didn’t mind at all, but it was an inconvenience.

“The check engine light has been on for a while. It’s annoying. So I put a sticker over it.”

I pressed my head against the back of the seat and closed my eyes. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. How long has it been on?”

“Like a year or so. It’s fine.”

“And you haven’t taken it in to get checked out?”

“Why would I do that?” she asked as she buckled her seatbelt. “It still runs.”

I glanced at her odometer, then at the oil change reminder sticker in the corner of the windshield. “You’re—” I groaned “—fifteen thousand miles past due for an oil change.”

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