Page 7 of Fluke
Slowly, like he knows I need time to process those three words, he settles back in his seat. The fabric of his shirt shifts, lying flat against his stomach. A slip of skin at his hip where his shirt bunched glistens.
It’s akin to walking inside a donut shop while cutting carbs.
Pure torture.
“What about you?” I say, redirecting the conversation away from my private life. “Who are you seeing these days?”
He stretches his legs out beneath the table. His foot swipes against mine, and I know he notices. He rolls his tongue around his mouth.
“I don’t have time to see anyone,” he says. “I work ten or twelve hours a day and spend the rest of it eating, sleeping, or keeping Banks out of my house.”
I snort. “What’s up with that?”
“Maddox got married last week, and Banks is beside himself.”
“Banks doesn’t like Maddox’s wife?”
“Oh, he likes her fine. We all love Ashley. But she effectively stole Banks’s best friend. Maddox won’t let Banks sleep on his couch anymore or hang out at his house twenty-four seven. It’s a thing, and Banksy is driving me fucking nuts.”
I laugh. “So is Banks homeless now?”
“Hell, no. You know where we live, right?”
“Yeah, I think so. Aren’t you all just before you get into Kismet Beach if you’re coming from Sunnydale?”
He nods. “Mom and Dad bought all the houses along Honeysuckle Lane—one for all six kids. Obviously, Mom has codependency issues.”
We share a smile.
I remember Damaris Carmichael from Greg’s wrestling days. She was always so warm, so sweet—always ready with a smile and a sandwich if anyone in the gym was hungry.Such a contrast to my mother.
“So what brought you back to town?” Jess asks.
“Unless I want to live in a bug-infested condo in an area that requires mace at night, it’s cheaper for me to live here and drive into Lakely every day. The housing prices are astronomical.”
“If you ever buy a reno project, hit me up. I know a guy.”
“Oh, you do, do you?”
He laughs. “I do. He can probably get you a good price too. He has connections.”
“Right,” I say, grinning so hard that my cheeks ache.
“If you throw in a couple of dinner dates, I bet you could knock off a few grand.”
I can’t help it—I burst out laughing. “My presence isn’t worth a couple of grand, Mr. Carmichael.”
“Speak for yourself.”
I shake my head and try to tell myself he’s this flirty with everyone, but I know that’s not true. I’ve witnessed him in many situations over the years, and he always flocks to me. He builds me up, making me feel really good about myself. Sure, he’s respectful of other women in conversations—I’ve watched him from afar enough to know this is true. But with them, he’s not like he is with me.
And there’s an unspoken intimacy—like we share a secret—that feels special.
Maybe we do. Maybe that secret is that we both want each other. I just happen to know that someone else would be better for him than me.
That sucks, but it’s true.
“You’re good for the ego. You know that?” I ask, grinning.
