Page 84 of Snap Shot

Indi freezes but keeps the cricket bat in her grasp.

I lower my sunglasses.

“Landon?” she whisper-yells, turns her head in both directions down the hallway, then pulls me through the threshold by my sweatshirt collar. “What are you doing here?” She closes and locks the door lightly, setting the bat in the corner.

“Wishing for death, it seems.Jesus.” I shove the glasses into a pocket and drop the hood back.

“You could've texted or something.” She rumples her gray sweatshirt in one hand and tugs at the hem of her matching shorts, ankle-socked feet shifting against the floor. The idea of her feet being cold is so adorable.“A heads up would have been nice.”

“And miss out on getting maimed?” I have no control over my smile when I'm around this girl. My hands pull her into a hug, and she gasps. “Not a chance.”

She rolls those big brown eyes. “Don't make me use the cricket bat again.”

“Brrrr. I'm shaking in my boots.” I fake a shudder. “But really? A cricket bat?”

She gives a weak shove to my chest, plotting her escape. I tighten around her.

A disapproving shake swishes her straightened hair across her shoulders. “Compliments of my dad. He gave it to me when I started living alone. It's supposedly heavier than a baseball bat.”

The cap on my head is an asshole and the bill knocks into her forehead when I lean for a peck on the cheek.

“Ow.” Indi slaps the hat down, so it covers my eyes. “This is what you get for trying to be cute.”

“Trying?” I lift off the cap and flip it around. “Iamcute.”

She pretends to gag but her blush tells me she's not unaffected by my charms. My hands lower from her mid-back to cup her ass—how does it fill my palms so perfectly?—and steal a kiss from her jawline. “And I think you know what happens when I'm not being cute.”

Indi sighs out but tenses.

I pull back, not wanting to make her uncomfortable in her own home. “This is a nice place.”

“I mean, it's no penthouse.”

“Penthouses are overrated.” I squeeze her sides. “You wanna show me around?”

“There's not much to see,” she says with a spin, extending her arm to the right. “Kitchen, living room. Bedroom, washroom, bedroom turned into a home office.”

I slide past her to inspect the living area. Dishes drying on the rack and soaking in the sink. Decent size sectional, a coffee table covered in unopened mail. Indi sprints to the bedroom door, shutting it and cutting my view of the pile of laundry on her bed short. Her uneasy smile makes my heart flip.

“Sorry, it's a mess. I told you; you should’ve told me you were headed over.”

“It's not a mess.” Nothing is dirty, just cluttered. The TV is paused on an unflattering frozen image of a dancer. “Were you watching something?”

“Not really.” Indi scrambles for the remote and shuts it off. “Background noise while I work.”

A strange pattern emerges on the last scan of the main room. My eyes dart around to the sound ofPsychotheme music. Dead plants scatter the space: in the corner, on her bookshelf, on side tables, and a line on the windowsill.

“Damn, Indi.” I lift the wilted limb of what was once a vine. “This is like a greenhouse graveyard.”

Her face reddens. “I'm a busy woman, okay? It's not my fault they don't wanna live.”

I click my tongue, feigning disappointment. “It's always the unsuspecting ones that turn out to be serial plant killers.”

She hisses through a cringed smile. “It's not a great track record. This” —she points to the white orchid in the kitchen— “is the only thing that sticks around. And only because Gabe comes by every week to drop ice cubes in it.”

The couch cushions hold firm as I drop back onto them with an uncoolplop. “You mean Gabe Finch?”

“Y-yeah? How do you know—?”

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