Page 14 of Forget Me Not

I can’t help but smirk at Nova. She’s no more into the pussy behind the counter than the sheets of drywall in front of us.

“What?” she snaps, cheeks fire engine red. She crosses her arms over her chest. “It’s not polite to eavesdrop.”

“Your boyfriend seems nice. If you’re into grown men with the personality of a preteen schoolgirl.”

She gawks at me, punching my arm with all the strength of a feral newborn kitten. “Crusty’s a nice guy,” she urges, her voice quiet as she looks back to make sure he’s still busy with the customer.

There she goes again with that touching shit.

“And he’s not my boyfriend.”

“With a name like Crusty, I can’t imagine why.”

She rolls her eyes, facing the drywall. “Why do you care? I don’t know you.”

“I don’t.” I shrug, though I can think of some part of me that very much cares. “Just amusing to watch you friendzone him in the nicest way possible. Can’t you just say no?”

“I don’t want to hurt his feelings, Reid,” she snaps. “Something you wouldn’t know anything about.”

Touché.

Half an hour later, we’re back at the inn, drywall in hand, and Nova and I carry it up to the back bedroom with the hole in the wall. I put her to work, mixing a new batch of drywall until it’s the right consistency while I set out cutting the piece to fit in place.

“How did you come to own this place?” I ask quietly when she fails, for the second time, to mix drywall correctly. I take the bucket from her and set about trying to fix it while she stands back watching.

“I don’t. Not yet. My Gran and Pappap own this place.”

“Pappap? Are we five?”

“What do you call your grandparents, then? Grandmother and Grandfather?”

“I don’t call them anything, actually.”

Shit. The look in Nova’s eyes is why I refrain from telling people about my family. Well, that and the other. That information I’ll take to the grave.

“I’m sorry,” Nova murmurs. “I didn’t mean—”

“Stop.” My voice rings out in the small room as a heavy silence falls over us. Where did this anger come from? I’ve gotten used to the fact that I don’t have any family left. I mean, I’ve had twenty-nine years to figure this shit out. Yet . . . when I look up and see that fucking pity in her eyes, I feel like I’m a kid again.

“Nova,” a woman interrupts, popping through the door. Hazel eyes linger on me for a moment. Under normal circumstances, she would be pretty. Right now, with the literal bane of my existence bending over in those damned shorts, I don’t even see the other woman. “We can’t get the washer started again.”

“I can’t. I’m helping—”

“Go,” I tell her. “I can handle this.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but I don’t let her.

“Go.”

She stares at me a beat, then her eyes narrow.

Good. It’s better if she hates me. It’ll make leaving her alone, observing her from afar, easier.

“Fine,” she simmers, marching past me. As she does, she shoves the drywall-covered spatula at me, getting it on my shirt. I suppose I deserve it. It also makes me want to spank her ass for being a brat.

And I have no fucking idea where that desire comes from.

She pauses, just as she reaches the door, blue-green eyes flaring with something deeper. Rejection? As if anyone on this island, save for myself, has ever rejected her. “Thanks for your help.”

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