Page 42 of What's Left of Us

No kidding.

“You talk about your stepmother,” he says, changing topics. “What about your mom?”

The invisible knife in my heart turns, piercing me at a whole new angle. “She passed away when I was little,” I reply quietly, staring at my lap.

His palms stop massaging me again for a brief second. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

I peek up at him through my lashes. “It was a car accident. I was four.”

He nods, moving his hands to my feet to start working them. “We should go out.”

I gape at him, my foot twitching in his hold as he presses into the arch. “What?”

“You and I,” he says, moving a finger between us, “should go out on a date. Get to know each other better.”

I blink slowly. “Why?”

“For one, you’re living with me.”

“I’m temporarily staying here while you’re gone,” I correct quickly.

He nods sarcastically. “Of course, sweetheart. You’re apartment-sitting and I appreciate it. I’d hate for my plants to die.”

I look around in confusion, wondering if I should have been watering plants while he was away. He hadn’t said anything about that.

Then I realize he has no plants.

Lincoln chuckles when I glare at him. “Secondly, I’d like to know more stories about your upbringing. I know your mother passed, your father remarried, and you have strict rules that don’t seem like they belong in this century. You’ve never been trick-or-treating; you used to get dragged to boring-ass charity events where you’d dance with people five times older than you, and it sounds to me like you hated every second. I want to know what else haven’t you done. What do you like to do? What did you want to be when you grew up? I want to know what makes you…tick.”

That’s…a lot. “I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up,” I admit. “Is that lame?”

He shakes his head. “That’s pretty normal. What do you like to do?”

I think about it. “Read. I like to read.”

“Maybe you can see if the library is hiring.”

I perk up. “There’s a library?”

His chuckle is soft. “Yeah. There’s a public library not far from here. A block or two over. I can take you if you’d like.”

Some of the tightness eases in my chest. “I would like that.”

“You never answered me,” he points out.

About the date. “You told me before you didn’t expect anything of me.”

“I still don’t,” he reassures, moving from one foot to the other. “You can say no. I don’t force women to date me. Frankly, I don’t need to.”

Jealousy, abrupt and ugly, settles into my chest at the thought of him with somebody else. It makes no sense to me, but I feel it all the same.

“But,” he adds, voice lowering, “I think you want to go out with me.”

“Is that so?” I challenge.

He simply hums.

I cross my arms, debating turning him down solely for my pride. Why does he have to be so cocky? So confident?

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