Page 22 of The Gamma's Second Chance

We’d just be a fling. A flash in the pan. And I’ve never been good at flings. I’m not Reid, chasing tail after tail until Taryn came along and tamed him. Or Wes, searching for Haven in every female he dated until she appeared on the shore of the lake one autumn evening. Other than Kimberly, who had meeven though she never truly wanted me, and Rachel, who I never truly had even though I wanted her, I can count the number of females I’ve slept with on one hand, and none of those encounters resulted in a repeat.

The problem is clearly me.

Yes. Avoiding her is the best course of action.

I pause on the front step of my house, breathing deeply before I go inside after my run. I can do this. It’s almost dinnertime. That means she’ll head into her room after the dishes are done, so I only have to spend this one meal with her before I can be alone.

Until tomorrow. When everything starts over again.

I rush into the house and beeline for the kitchen, straight to the sink to grab water like I always do. It’s quiet, and I lean against the counter, waiting for Cassandra to pop her head through the archway or come out of the pantry with her arms full of whatever ingredients she needs for whatever she plans to make for dinner.

At least, I’m pretty sure it’s her night to cook.

I check the day on my phone and then look at the fridge, where our new agreements are taped, written in gold glitter gel pen on blank staff paper from the top of my piano. I found them the other day while staring at the daisies I can’t bring myself to actually hate, added the third agreement—Cassandra cooks Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and Nolan cooks Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday—and then placed the list on the fridge.

Okay. Yes. It’s Wednesday, so it’s Cassandra’s night tonight.

I glance at my phone again and realize there is a text from her, which I missed earlier.

Cassandra: I’m going to order pizza tonight. What toppings do you want?

I text her back immediately.

Me: Sorry, I just saw this. Combination is fine.

I stare at the phone, waiting, but she doesn’t reply. I let out a sigh and set the phone on the counter, then go into the pantry to scrounge up a snack while I wait for her to either order the pizza or return from picking it up.

The interior of the pantry lights up as I flip the switch, and I stop in my tracks, blinking, too stunned to do anything else.

Because there, filling an entire shelf, are at least twenty bags of salt and vinegar potato chips, each with a label slapped on them that reads “Cassandra.”

My hands curl into fists, and my teeth grind together, my nostrils flaring. I storm forward, reaching for a bag. Who cares if her name is on it? I don’t. It’s not a real claim. But I’m once again thrown for a loop when I spot a small, sandwich-sized bag of chips that she’s set aside, my name written across the front in permanent marker.

How fucking sweet of her.

I slam my fist onto the shelf and then bite my knuckles. I’m not sure whether I want to laugh or yell or find her and spank that cheeky little ass of hers.

Or all of the above.

Breathing in and out, I count to ten, then push off from the shelf and leave the pantry, sandwich bag of chips in tow.

They stay gripped in my hand as I stomp through the house and into the living room to grab my guitar. It’s the distraction I need right now, and I’ve left it in there, untouched, for far too long since Cassandra arrived.

But as I make my way back out of the room, guitar in one hand and chips in the other, and towards the stairs, I pause yet again. My brow furrows, and I turn in place, examining the room. Something is off. Different. Wrong.

I flick my eyes over every surface, my mind working overtime to determine what seems to be the issue. It’s not the piano—it’s still right where it should be, with a fresh bouquet of daisies inthe center of it. It’s not the sofa or the loveseat—both are in their proper place, the same place they’ve been in since I moved in here.

“Huh.” I shrug and walk out of the room, and that’s when it hits me.

Or rather, that’s when it doesn’t hit me.

Because instead of bumping into the sharp corner of the small end table like I usually do, I move out of the room and into the entry unencumbered. My head whips around, and I search the space, desperate to find it.

There it is. Between the couch and the loveseat. And I bet I know exactly who put it there. The same someone who keeps putting daisies all over my house. The same someone who filled a shelf with bags of potato chips just for her.

Cassandra.

And the worst part? It works better there. The entire room feels more open, and the end table is no longer a safety hazard. I don’t have to worry about the corner jabbing my leg every time I walk by, and I don’t have to be embarrassed when a guest does the same.

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