Page 86 of Home Ice

"I think that might not be your best idea. We can brainstorm all night at my house, which is where you're staying." Brant's tone lets me know that it's not a question.

It's not like I really want to break up with him. What woman in her right mind would want to break up with Brant Morrison? My mom may be the fill in for Lucifer when the dark lord goes on vacation, but it feels like the timing of her text was fate. A reminder to me just as I was about to go too far. A reminder that nothing in my life ever lasts. And that men like Brant Morrison don't go for girls like me. Just like she said all those years ago.

When he made me name the reasons we won't work, I didn't mention the biggest one. That I love him. It's sure as pouring pesticide on a plant and watching it die. I acknowledge my feelings for someone, and they inevitably leave me. What's wrong with avoiding the heartache this time? I've done enough crying in my life. So why can't I tell him no now?

"I'm sleeping in one of the guest rooms." This is a very bad idea.

"We'll talk about that later."

"We're talking now. I'll stay at your house, but it's going to be in one of the guest rooms." This isn't just a bad idea, it's the worst idea I've ever had. That perm I insisted on in tenth grade, the one that made my head look like a giant boxwood shrub? That was smarter than this. My body is already pleading with me to jump him here in the parking lot. What's going to happen when I'm in his house? "And no touching," I add, like it might save me.

Brant lets out a low growl. The only reason I hear it is because I turn Sebastian off while I wait for Brant to get into his own car. "This sort of defeats the purpose of having you stay with me."

"Good, then I guess I won't?—"

"Deal. Guest room and no touching."

He's holding out the pinky of his left hand, but I just stare at it. "Seriously?"

"A pinky promise is the most solemn oath a person can take."

I can't argue that. "That's true. I just didn't expect a tough athlete to whip out their pinky like this."

"If you'd prefer, I could whip something else out for you."

My body screams that it would very much prefer that, thank you very much, and I know the thought colors my cheeks. But I give him what I really hope looks like a disapproving glance as I wrap my pinky around his, pretending my core muscles aren't so tight they could snap. "I just need to grab a few things from home first."

"Lingerie."

I spin in my seat and level a glare at him. He has an eyebrow raised, hopeful, but as soon as my eyes meet his, he smirks. "Absolutely no lingerie," I tell him, leaving no room for ambiguity.

He steps out of my car, but turns and leans into the open door, the side of his mouth still annoyingly curled up. "I was just looking out for you, Jams. It can get cold going around my house naked in the middle of winter, but you do you."

"Morrison," I growl.

"I'll follow right behind you."

So infuriating. "You don't need to. I promised I would come to your house, and I will."

"Okay." His car beeps as he slips his hand into the handle. "Right behind."

Asshole. I slam Sebastian into drive and stomp on the pedal. He responds with a gentle acceleration and none of the dramatic tire bark I hoped for. At least the glovebox stays closed. It takes just two traffic lights before the familiar black SUV changes lanes to get in behind me. It's the kind of car that I would normally say is owned only by men who are trying to compensate for something else, but in Brant's case, I know that's not true.

Brant stays exactly two car lengths behind me for the entire fifteen minute drive to Sugar House. Even through the yellow light that I probably should have stopped at. I hoped he wouldn't run it to stay with me. I should have known better.

When I pull into my driveway, I give him an irritated flick of my wrist. "Satisfied now?" I ask aloud. Apparently not, because he pulls to the curb in front of the house. As if he doesn't live just seventy-three steps away. Not that I've counted.

Even as annoying as he is, there's something kind of cute about it. But it annoys me even more that I would find something like this cute. I feel his eyes on me as I walk up to the house, but I refuse to acknowledge him. I don't look at anything except the turquoise door.

I laugh to myself as I remember the absolute fit I threw in high school over this door. The old, ugly white paint was chipped and fading into a hideous cream color. Dad wanted to just put a new coat of white paint on it, but that seemed like the biggest travesty in the world to me. Sixteen-year-old me had big feelings about everything. I'm surprised I didn't lead a march on Washington when Trix cereal changed from artificial to natural coloring. But finally, I convinced Dad that our door needed to be bold. Just like him. Just like I wished I could be. And when he finished the last coat of paint, we both knew it was perfect. It couldn't be any other color.

Maybe if I weren't staring at the door to avoid Brant or if I weren't remembering Dad, I would have noticed her walking up behind me. I could have hurried through the door and slammed it in her face.

"Oh my, is that really you? What have you done?"

It feels like someone runs an icy knife down my back. I haven't heard my mom's voice for fifteen years, but apparently it's something I'll never forget.

I should put the key in the door. It's not too late. I can walk in and act like I never heard her. I owe her nothing. Instead, I turn around.

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