Page 44 of Dizzy

“That’s enough for today, Carson. Go help your brother with the lawn.”

There’s whining.

A little frisson of fear—or excitement?—zips through my belly. I tug down my T-shirt.

“You seen Fay-Lee?”

There’s a mumble.

Then there’re footsteps in the hall, and the door opens. He stays there like he did when he found me in his room. Or last night, when I was in bed. He’s keeping his distance.

But his dark eyes find me and don’t let go. The butterflies in my belly go nuts.

“There you are,” he says.

“You lookin’ for me?” My insides warm.

“You weren’t upstairs.”

“You said do the laundry.”

“It don’t need to be done right away.”

“I was bored.”

His gaze rakes down my front. My nipples stiffen into points. I went braless the night of the first party, and since Chaos rolled off with my bag, I haven’t worn one since. With my A cups, I can get away with it. Not in this shirt, though. The Bud logo isn’t conveniently placed.

“Those Parker’s clothes?”

“I figure.”

“We’ll ride into town later. Pick up what you need.”

“This works fine.”

“I don’t want you in boy’s clothes.”

I swallow. For some reason, my mouth is watering. Dizzy’s clearly been working. He’s wearing a white, grease-stained T-shirt and ripped jeans. He’s pulled his hair back in a ponytail, but strands are springing loose all over the place.

He’s bare-footed.

I curl my toes. I am, too.

What was he saying? Oh, yeah. He doesn’t want me dressed like a boy.

I guess I should be offended by the heavy-handedness. But there’s something about the way he stands on the threshold, won’t come a step closer. Makes me want to mess with him.

“Yeah? How do you want to dress me?”

His gaze flicks over his shoulder. He listens for something. Probably Carson. There’s silence from the family room.

Dizzy eases in, shuts the door behind him and leans against it. Panic flutters in my chest. I don’t need to be scared. I’m fine. If push came to shove, I could fit through the windows.

“I’d put you in something pretty,” Dizzy’s saying, and I forget about the fear. “Soft.”

“You don’t like this?” I tug the T-shirt taut.

“No.” His voice is gravelly. I love it.

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