Page 18 of The Best You've Ever Had

Stopping to pet Hank, who’s perched on the arm of the couch awaiting pets, I overhear him. “Hey, Mom. Everything okay?” There’s a brief pause as he listens and looks around the wall of the dining room to where Hank and I are getting reacquainted. Holding up a finger, he gestures for me to wait a minute, ashe responds back to his mom. “Yeah, that should work. She’s actually here right now, so I’ll…” I can hear the indistinguishable garble of Brandy’s excited voice on the other line, followed by his murmured responses.

He hangs up as I pull on my running shoes, nearly tipping over in the process as I attempt to do it while standing. Walking across the room toward the entryway, he emerges, absentmindedly scratching the back of his head. His shirt rides up, revealing the smooth contours of muscle underneath that I can’t stop my eyes from drifting toward. I mentally remind myself to fact-check whether firefighters are objectively more attractive or if it’s merely a placebo effect. Because this isnothow I remember him. My mental image of him used to be of a tall, lanky, annoying guy. Now, I’m confronted with this new version of him—a grown-up transformation where his slender frame has been replaced by solid muscle and a decent sense of humor.

With a note of reluctance, he finally says, “So, that was my mom.”

“Yeah, kind of figured that when you said, ‘Hey, Mom.’” I glance up at him with a teasing smile as I tie my shoe.

“Smart ass.” With a half-smile, he continues, “She was wanting to know if we could all come over tonight. Mick’s having another good day for the first time in a while. He doesn’t get too many of those anymore. He wants to see everyone again.” His previously amused smile turns into a sad one. The realization of the situation settling over us like a plume of dust. Bursting us from our previous happy little bubble.

Clearing his throat, he adds, “You don’t have to, of course. But it’d mean a lot to him. You know how much he’s always liked you.”

“Of course, I’ll be there. It’s part of the reason why I’m here…for your family. It sounds fun. Well, besides the whole havingto hang out with you part.” I’m lying straight through my teeth, because I’ve come to discover that I’m actually beginning to enjoy hanging out with him.

My comment revives his smirk. “Need I remind you, that youranto my house—keyword beingran. It sounds like you couldn’t wait to see me.”

“I hate you,” I deadpan.

“You sure about that?” He smiles ear-to-ear. All cocky and smug and with a hidden six pack that I now cannot get out of my head.

Our back-and-forth is the only thing keeping us going this week. Perhaps also the only thing from either fist fighting or having sex—I’m not sure which at this point.

He watches as I unlock the brushed bronze lock and open the door. A blast of frigid air rushes through, sending a shiver up my spine as if it’s freezing my vertebrae one by one. Running here maybe wasn’t my brightest idea. But you know what’s even worse? Hearing my mom and Paul through the paper thin walls. I’d run hours in the middle of a blizzard, if it meant never hearing the two of them again. “I better get going. Text me the details about tonight and I’ll make it work.”

“Wait.” He walks up and holds the front door from closing. I’m on one side of the door, him on the other. And even with him not having showered yet, I can smell his mesmerizing scent. A mixture of cologne, laundry detergent, and body wash—a woodsy citrus smell that I wish I could bottle up and open to sniff whenever I’m homesick. “Let me drive you home. It’s too cold to run in this weather.”

“Oh please, I’ll be fine. I ran all the way here, I can run back too.”

Grabbing both of my shoulders, he starts to pull me back into the warmth of his house. I don’t want to admit it aloud, but itisfreezing outside. The last thing I want is to be out there in the30? weather with wind that’s picking up. However, the other last thing I want is to be around him for one more second. It’s not even because I hate him; it’s my own fault. Now that I’ve seen him shirtless, tasted his cooking, slept on his couch, and become his fake girlfriend, I’m getting too comfortable around him. Too open to the idea that sleeping with him wouldn’t be half bad, in fact, it might be outstanding. One look at him, and you just know he’d rock your world in the best sexual ways possible.

With those big hands cupping round my much smaller shoulders, he leads me back into the family room. “You’re staying. And the fact that you’re not even clawing your way out of my grip tells me that you know I’m right.”

“Icouldeasily run home. But if you happen to already be going somewhere, then sure. I guess I’ll accept a ride.” Begrudgingly, I add, “Thank you.”

Walking to the hall closet, he throws on a charcoal gray utility jacket, and grabs an extra hoodie off a hanger. “Here. Wear this.”

He tosses the garment, and it hits me in the chest before sliding down into a puddle of fabric on the ground.

“I’m already wearing a jacket.”

“That’s hardly a jacket.”

As another shiver wracks my body, his eyes snap to the movement—hyper aware of every little cue and feeling that comes over me. That’s the problem with him. He knows me too well.

“Stop fighting with me and just put it on,” he sighs.

I pick up the hoodie with two fingers and an outstretched arm, inspecting it as if it’s contaminated with toxic waste. Pulling my arms through the sleeves, it’s apparent that it is incredibly too big. It’s also very warm and smells like him, so I keep my grumbling to a minimum.

Grabbing his keys and wallet from the entryway table, he nods down the hall. “Let’s go. I’m parked in the garage.”

He leads me through the hallway toward the back door that’s connected to the garage. I haven’t been on this side of his house before, so I take every opportunity to snoop as we pass by the three bedrooms connected to the hall. Each one is surprisingly clean—a stark contrast to the horrid rat lair he previously had the first day I came over. I spot two bedrooms, both with large beds on wooden frames, crisp white linens, and black-and-white photos hung on the walls. The third room looks to be a makeshift home gym, with a treadmill and some sort of fancy pulley cable machine.

Entering the garage, there are little signs of him scattered throughout—a beat up kayak, a full workbench with various tools, stacks of black organized bins, and a Christmas tree in an unopened box.

As he unlocks the car and opens the passenger door for me, I point to the artificial tree. “You know Christmas is next week. Shouldn’t you be putting that up?”

Taking a long look at it, he shrugs and closes my door with a slam before proceeding to the driver’s side. When he slides into the front, settling into the black leather seat, he sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. It feels wrong to celebrate this year.”

A look of profound sadness etches into his dark brows and eyes, like a raging storm cloud rolling into the horizon.

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