Page 2 of Stick Break
With her short blonde hair falling across her face, her arms and legs spread wide like she’d been making snow—or rather sand—angels, she’s still snuggled between the sheets. The covers are down, exposing her legs, and I force my gaze away.
Now is not the time to be admiring the criminal in your bed, dude.
Right. Because later will be a much more appropriate time to ogle a fugitive.
No, I mentally slap myself. There will be no later. I’m kicking her out. Nicely. Politely. But firmly. There’s no way I can allow her to stay here, in this one-bedroom cottage. Not only am I trying to heal in private, I have a damn girlfriend. Well, not really a girlfriend. I have a friend, a girl, who used to be my girlfriend. Lyra and I were a thing during our college years in upstate New York, but now, we’re sort of on again, off again.
Yeah, on again when she needs something, dude.
I push that thought from my mind, and make my way back to the beloved coffee maker. I grab a mug and fill. As I sip, I lean against the counter. Then I hear movement. The soft rustle of sheets. A thump. Shuffling. And finally…none other than Indie Rhodes appears in the doorway, head ducked, hair a mess, not at all looking like someone broke into my buddy’s cottage.
“Sleep well, Goldilocks?”
Her head snaps up, eyes wide. One hand shoots out and grips the doorframe, like the sight of me might shocked her legs right out from beneath her. “I uh…who…” Her eyes bounce around the room, as her other hand grabs a fistful of the oversized sweatshirt. My sweatshirt. Which may or may not look better on her than me, and I’m leaning toward may. “What…what are you doing here?”
I blink. “What am I doing here? I’m pretty sure I’m the one who should be asking you that question.”
Her gaze slices to the door, and I swear I can hear the mental math she’s doing—distance, speed, angle of escape, odds of success. She’s looks like she’s two seconds from trying a full Olympic sprint when I push off the counter and grab another mug.
“Relax. I’m not going to hurt you.” I pour coffee into a big mug with the Connecticut skyline on it, and pretend this is just another Tuesday. I set the mug on the table and take a step back, like I’m trying not to startle a skittish kitten. Nibbling her lip, she stares at it. “It’s not poisoned.”
Her eyes dart to mine, and that’s when I see just how blue they are. “I didn’t think it was…until now.”
That gets a laugh out of me. I grab the carafe and pour more into my cup and take a big, dramatic sip just to prove I’m not the villain here. I raise it in salute as she tiptoes to the table and scurries right back to the safety of the bedroom doorway.
“Thank you.” She takes a sip and a visible chunk of tension melts from her shoulders.
“So, are you going to tell me what you’re doing here…in my sweatshirt?”
I arch a brow, watching her tug at the hem like it might suddenly stretch into pants. It rides higher on her thighs instead. Distracting.
She blinks rapidly. “I didn’t realize it was yours.” She juts a thumb over her shoulder. “I found it in the dresser.”
“Yeah, because I put it there.”
Is she wearing anything under that sweatshirt?
She leans against the doorframe, chin tipped up now. She's presenting calm, maybe even cocky, like she’s decided bluffing is better than bolting. “I’m renting this place. From friends. Maybe you’re the one who’s lost. All the cottages look the same, right? Maybe you’re supposed to be in the one next door.”
Nice pivot. “Mrs. Callahan’s?”
“I don’t know her name.”
I sip my coffee, now amused with her antics. “These friends of yours…they forget to give you a key?”
“What?”
I nod toward the window. “Assuming that’s why you had to climb in like a cat burglar.”
She groans, eyes fluttering shut. “Damn.”
“I liked the effort though and you should be glad you didn’t crawl into Mrs. Callahan’s place.” I mock shiver. “She kind of scares me.”
When she lashes flutter open, the bluff’s gone. Just like that, her shoulders drop. The whole show collapses. “I’ll go. Thanks for the coffee.”
She starts to leave, but something in me won’t let her. “Wait.”
Jesus, what am I doing? I should let her go. I need to let her go.
