Page 40 of Too Hostile

Sadly, though, he doesn’t say any of those things to drag me back to reality. “I’m not hiding. I’ll be fine.” I just stare at him, waiting for the rest of it because there’s more to it, and we both know it. Apparently, I care. Damn him. So I wait. And then he huffs, “Fine. I’m so damn happy for her. So happy. But we’ve never been that far apart since we met. I used to panic when she got placed somewhere over two miles from me, and now, she’s going to fucking New York. I’m freaking out a lot about it.”

I offer him a gentle smile. “Was that so hard?”

He tosses a crouton at me, and I catch it with my hand and pop it into my mouth. “Yes, it was,” he answers with another haughty little huff.

“It really will be okay, you know?”

He sighs and then nods. “Yeah. She’s so damn excited. I can’t help but feel happy for her. She’s tough too.”

The oven timer goes off, and I start to remove the chicken, but I’m still focused on Fletcher. “Tell me about her?”

He looks momentarily surprised but then recovers quickly. “Bree’s the strongest woman I know, besides my mom. She doesn’t take shit from anyone, but she’s the first to offer help to anyone who needs it. I think Rhett and I always thought we needed to take care of her, but looking back, it was always Bree who took care of us.”

I place the pan on the stovetop and turn off the oven, turning to look over at Fletcher, who’s so damn beautiful doing nothing but standing in my kitchen, wearing his ridiculous tank top and shorts. “Sounds like you all took care of each other. It couldn’t have been easy in foster care,” I say grimly, my own demons threatening to come back up.

And I think he notices because his eyes turn almost stormy as he approaches me. “When are you going to tell me something about you?”

Well shit. This whole wanting to know more about him thing really backfired, didn’t it?

“You know plenty of somethings about me,” I try, turning away and grabbing two plates from the cupboard.

“Really?”

My shoulders drop, and I turn around to look at him. “What do you want from me, Fletcher?” I ask quietly because I know deep down what he wants.

“You know everything about me. I mean, everything. Things I really don’t talk about. Things I don’t tell anyone. I’ve let you see the real me, but you haven’t shown me anything.” He drops his hands to my hips, looking right into my eyes and not backing down, but there’s a gentleness in his gaze. “Just give me something. Anything at all. I know it’s just for the summer or whatever,” he says softly, and I can hear the sad disappointment in his words, which slashes my heart right open. “But just something.”

“Fine.” I try to think of something I can tell him. Something no one else knows. My gut turns, and darkness starts to take over, my knees starting to go weak. But I push it away. Nope. I’m not going there.

Fletcher drops his hands from my hips and gives me a sad little nod. “Okay. Dinner.”

That plastic fake smile is back on his face, and I hate it so damn much, I blurt out, “I’m terrified of potatoes.”

He was facing away from me, probably getting the salad to take to the table, but he stops and then slowly turns around. “What?”

“I know it sounds dumb, but it’s a legit fear. Not really potatoes, but those white gross...” I almost gag, just thinking about them. I wave my hand, trying to push the visual out of my head. “I can’t do it. I hate when they start growing that shit on them.”

He’s watching me closely, one eyebrow raised. “Are you messing with me?”

“No. I swear,” I say honestly. “I’ve never told another soul about it because I know I’ll get teased relentlessly, but I swear it’s true. I don’t even keep potatoes in the house. If I want potatoes for dinner, I have to buy them that day, in person, after examining them, and if I don’t use them, I toss them.”

A slow smile takes over his face, and then he lets out a quick, small laugh. “Sorry.” He schools his reaction and walks closer to me. “Thank you for trusting me with your secret.”

I cup his face in my hands and look into his blue orbs. “I want to tell you more. I do,” I say, pain creeping up in my chest, just thinking about anything deeper than my very real fear of rotting potatoes.

He leans forward, my hands still on his face, and presses a kiss to my lips. “Thank you.”

I smile against his lips, and he kisses me again before we part to have dinner in my dining room.

He seems content, but I still hate that I couldn’t let him in.

But I also hate that I really, really wanted to.

It’s just for the summer.

FLETCHER

He’s afraid of potatoes.

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