Page 83 of A Little Broken

And hello, deja vu. We’ve danced this tango before. It was at the concert. I shouldn't have touched him then, and I sure as hellshouldn’t be touching him now. I shouldn’t notice the muscles beneath his skin and the effort he’s clearly been putting in at the gym since the last time I touched him like this, either. Seeing it is one thing. Touching him? Feeling his heat, let alone being up close and personal with the fresh bruises I noticed earlier? This is bad. Very bad. I need to get out of here.

“Sure you don’t want to shower with me?” he questions.

I square my shoulders and drop my hand, propping it on my hip. “Sure you don’t want to be kneed in the balls?”

His soft chuckle fans across my cheeks as he moves aside, giving me more space to move past him. Then, I get the hell out of Dodge.

24

TATUM

It’s been ten minutes, and despite our little stare-down in the bathroom before I barged out, Pax didn’t follow me. Instead, he did as I suggested and hopped in the shower. Or at least, I assume, since I heard the shower turn on ten minutes ago. This means there’s no going back, and the bomb is ticking closer and closer to zero with every passing second.

I should leave. I’d be smart to. Especially when I know he’s going to scream like a girl in five minutes or less when he realizes his precious sandy-blonde locks that go perfectly with his espresso-colored eyes are a very bright, very permanent green color by the time he finishes showering. Okay, maybe I’m being optimistic. It’ll probably only be a minty color, and it’ll wash out in a couple weeks because it’s not like he'll leave it on for long, but a girl can dream, can’t she? And maybe, if I’m lucky, it’ll be the color of dog poop, and I won’t be so attracted to him anymore. Oh, what am I saying? I’m optimistic, not delusional. The guy would look gorgeous in any color. It honestly isn’t fair. Regardless, the desire to stay and watch the entire shitstorm unfold is too tantalizing for my own good, and even though I know I should get out of here, I kind of want to stick around to watch everything unfold. Hell, maybe I should make popcorn.

Probably a bad idea.

Seems it’s one of many.

The water in the pipes cuts off a few minutes later, and I lift my head, staring at the ceiling from the first floor. I said I was staying, not delusional enough to be within arm’s reach. Maybe I should’ve put the dye in the gel so it could sit longer. I have no idea if it even works fast enough to have an effect if it’s washed away almost instantly. Although, his hair is pretty light, so…

A deep, throaty laugh filters from the second floor. The sound makes my lower belly constrict with something I’m not stupid enough to identify or label. My ears perk, and my spine straightens, my hands as still as a statue’s as I fight the urge to book it out of the house.

Okay, so…something happened. But this isn’t the reaction I anticipated, so what does it mean? I have no idea. He doesn’t sound…mad. Or maybe he hasn’t noticed yet, and he was busy looking at a funny text or something? Not likely. But hey, it’s possible.

“Oh, Birthday Girl,” he calls.

Yeah, no. I changed my mind. I’m not gonna stick around for this one. I check my pocket for my keys, then freeze.

Shit.

Where are my keys?

Patting my jeans, my panic swells as heavy footsteps sound from the foyer.

“Oh, Birthday Girl,” he repeats.

He’s getting closer.

He’s going to kill me.

On instinct, I move around the kitchen island, leaving the cleaning supplies where they are, and duck into the pantry.

This is bad. This is very bad.

I cover my mouth, trying to steady my breathing in an attempt to make myself as quiet as possible, but I swear I canhear my own heartbeat. Or maybe it’s Paxton’s footsteps. The casual brush of bare feet against tile. Like he has all the time in the world.

“Are you hiding from me?” he calls.

I can hear the amusement in his voice, but I don’t make a sound.

“You are, aren’t you?” he decides. “Are you over….here?” He pauses. “No. Not by the table. How ‘bout over…here?” His voice is further away, and I let out a quiet breath I didn’t know I was holding. Maybe I’ll survive this after all. “Tate?” he questions.

I shift my weight forward in hopes of sneaking a peek at his whereabouts through the cracked pantry door when the floor creaks beneath my feet.

Shit.

“Oh, Tate,” he sing-songs. “What am I gonna do with you when I find you?”

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