Page 10 of Never Your Girl

His lips twitch. “Told you I was going to stick to you like glue.”

I stop short, spinning to face him. “Let me be crystal clear, Sanderson. I don’t like you. And I sure as hell don’t want to be anywhere near you.”

He tilts his head, eyes darkening. “That wasn’t always the case, now was it?”

My spine stiffens. Even at five-ten, I have to crane my neck to meet his gaze. “That was a long time ago.”

“And yet…” His voice drops lower, turning silky, when he finishes with, “Sometimes it feels just like yesterday.”

“No, what it feels like is ancient history.” I step closer, jabbing my finger into his chest. “Not to mention completely forgettable.”

“So you keep saying.” His hand catches mine before I can pull back, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. The touch sends electricity shooting up my arm. “I think we both know that’s a lie.”

I yank my hand free, ignoring how my skin tingles where he touched me. “You have absolutely nothing I want.” I turn away, desperate to escape before he realizes just how much he’s able to affect me. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have better places to be.”

His low chuckle follows me out into the sunshine. I pull out my phone, trying to focus on my mother’s radio silence rather than the lingering warmth of his touch.

I give her number two more tries before accepting that I’ll have to make the trip home. The forty-five-minute drive gives me way too much time to think.

About what Bridger’s hand felt like on mine.

About my mother’s latest crisis waiting to happen.

About how my life seems to be one endless cycle of damage control.

Our tiny bungalow comes into view, looking exactly like it has since I was a kid— slightly neglected but still standing. A black plastic ashtray sits on the railing, cigarette butts spilling over the edges despite my constant lectures about lung cancer.

While I’ve never doubted her love for me, the woman will never win mother of the year. She’s more of a dreamer. An eternal optimist who floats through life in a bubble of her own making. Her superpower is her ability to find lowlifes and try to turn them into her next great love interest.

What Vivienne has yet to realize is that she won’t find Prince Charming at the bottom of her beer glass at a local corner dive bar.

And it wouldn’t be the first time she’s taken off for a couple days without so much as a word.

So, Vivienne being MIA isn’t necessarily something to be overly concerned about. But I still feel compelled to stop home at least once a week to make sure she’s alive and paying the bills on time. Even when I was a kid, it felt more like I was the parent and she was the child.

I’m sure it doesn’t help that she was only sixteen when she got knocked up. When she couldn’t tell her parents who the father was, they kicked her pregnant ass out of the house.

And it’s been the two of us ever since.

Every so often, someone tries to be a third wheel, but it never lasts long before they end up ditching her. Mom is a lot to handle. She’s fun for a week or so, but then it becomes a little much.

I peer through the windows but see no signs of life. My heart clenches with that familiar fear. The one that whispers maybe this time she’s really gone too far.

When I test the front door handle, I find it unlocked.

How did I end up with all the self-preservation skills and my mother got zero?

The living room tells its own story. Beer cans are scattered across end tables, there’s a half-empty bottle of Boone’s Farm—Mom’s signature drink when she’s entertaining—along with a glass smeared with bright-red lipstick.

“Mom?” I call out, my voice echoing through the quiet house. After a beat, I try again, louder.

A shuffling sound comes from her bedroom. The door creaks open to reveal my mother, hair disheveled, wearing an oversized white T-shirt.

“Holland?” She blinks at me. “What are you doing here so early?”

She steps into the hallway, carefully pulling the door closed behind her until it clicks.

“Mom, it’s almost noon.”

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