Page 17 of When It's Us
I step forward and peer inside. God, I didn’t realize how small the interior of this thing would be. It’s less than a bedroom on wheels. My en suite bathroom is bigger than this entire vehicle. I purse my lips but manage to keep my mouth shut. I click the handles on my suitcase and push them forward.
He steps toward me like he might take them himself.
“By all means, let me,” he says.
I hesitate. I didn’t mean for him to take them, but when he reaches for the largest suitcase, our fingers brush, and I forget how to breathe. I remember those fingers tangled in my hair, on my skin, inside me. I pull back and clasp my hands, wondering if he remembers too. Probably not.
Stop it, for God’s sake. It’s been two minutes.
“I promise I won’t bite.” His eyebrows shoot up, a smile still curving his full lips. “Actually, if I remember correctly, you’re into that.”
My skin flushes when I remember the bite mark he left on my thigh the last time we were together. It had bruised a little, turning that brownish, yellow color quickly days later, and I remember being relieved but a little sad when it faded completely.
“If your ego gets any bigger, your head will explode,” I quip, hoping the expression on my face doesn’t give away what his words spark low in my belly.
He flashes that perfect lazy smile, completely unaffected, and then groans when he hefts the bigger of my suitcases. His dark brows pull together. “The fuck you got in here?”
My eyes immediately zero in on his biceps, the light brown hair dusting his corded and tattooed forearms, and I shrug. “You know, the essentials. If they’re too heavy, I can probably get my new neighbors to help. They’re young. Lots of muscles.”
His eyes flick toward Ryan and Josh, who have stepped out onto the porch. They’re young but have nothing on Hutch in the size department. I relish the indignation in his eyes when he looks back at me.
“Aw, did I insult your muscles, big guy? I stifle a laugh.
He reaches to take the garment bag from me, but I pull it back.
“Do you have a closet?” I ask. There are definitely a few items in there that should be hung up. It’s why I didn’t fold them and put them in the suitcase.
He takes the bag from me and a sarcastic grin splits his face. “I mean, yeah, but where am I going to put my giant ego if all your shit is in there?”
Ginger
I’msodistractedbythe man next to me, I swipe to answer my phone before fully checking the screen.
Shit.
I mentally kick my own ass for answering without looking at the caller ID first and paste a fake ass smile onto my face. If my mother detects even ahintof sadness or irritation in my voice, much less my face, she’ll latch onto it like a shark to blood in the water.
“Mom, hi,” I say, forcing brightness I do not feel into my voice. I wish my sister, Lexie, had never shown our mother how to FaceTime.
Even on a Saturday afternoon, she’s dressed to the nines. She’s got a large glass of red in her hand, and she’s perched on the blue settee on the lanai of her sprawling Florida Spanish-style house.
“Ginger,” she says, and I take in her perfectly starched blouse and dress slacks. “Are you putting on weight?”
Fuck my life.
“Nice to see you, too, Mom,” I mutter before flicking a glance at Hutch.
I wish I’d thought to grab my AirPods, but he doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to me, eyes focused on the road, lightlytapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel with his thumb. I settle for turning down the volume some, though the damage has already been done.
“I assume the boys have gone? I’ve been calling for days,” she pauses and peers at me questioningly, “where are you? Are you in a…vintage vehicle?”
I force myself to keep my expression passive. Honestly, I would have the same reaction if I were seeing her in this exact scenario, but something about how she says it makes me defensive—not just for me but for Hutch, too.
I glance over, and I swear his lips tip up a little at her question. “I’m with a…” What, exactly? We aren’t friends. I can’t exactly say I’m with the guy I let go down on me every chance I get. “Friend,” I eventually say, and Hutch huffs out a low chuckle.
It makes the dimple in his right cheek pop, and my stupid stomach gives a slutty little flutter. Traitor ass bitch.
She gasps. “Well, that’s brilliant! Is this amalefriend?” Her eyebrow climbs her forehead like it’s got a mind of its own and her expression is skeptically hopeful.
