Page 30 of The Weight of Your Wishes

He idly rubs his palm against his denim-clad thigh. “I overslept, too, you know. Same reason. At least I can blame my tardiness on the boss.” He smirks. I almost joke back with him, but it doesn’t feel right. I don’t want him misinterpreting things.

Ignoring him is like a stab to my gut, but it’s the only way. My entire perception of him is forever changed. Does he make jokes to try and get me to smile? Does he dress in certain clothes to see if I’ll like it? Does he break the rules to get my attention?

Probably, and what’s worse is it has worked. I do notice the tiny shorts he wears. No matter what he says or asks of me, I want to indulge him. And clearly, he has the power to drive me crazy by acting out. He has me wrapped around his finger, and it puts me on edge.

When I look into his round doe eyes, it’s unlike anything else. They suck me right in, and it feels comfortable and right. It’s like he knows me better than I know myself, like he understands me more than anyone else ever has. I don’t understand it because he really only knew me as a kid, and I’m sure he’s forgotten most of those years already. So much has changed since then. Things are all twisted up and mangled now. I’m worn by years of disappointment.

He doesn’t look up to me anymore—not with the same innocence he once did, anyway. He’s looking at me man to man now, and hewantsme.

I park in my spot at the bar, and Hendrix goes to open the door, but his hand stills. He looks over at me, his brows slanted, softening his expression into one of sincerity. “I really am sorry for everything last night.”

“I know. It’s okay.”

He scrutinizes me for a beat longer before the corner of his lips quirks up into a small smile. My heart skips a beat.

He needed my reassurance and forgiveness just to part ways for his shift, yet there was never a chance in hell that I would’ve denied him that.

I’m worried that I won’t be able to deny himanything.

CHAPTERELEVEN

HENDRIX

Grant scrapes the blade of a massive knife across the dead fish laid out on a piece of plywood, flaking the scales up from its flesh. He cleans and fillets it quickly and efficiently as I watch from a distance, slightly disgusted.

Ever since last weekend, he’s been fishing every chance he gets. So much so that he’s rarely ever at home. He’s either working or fishing. I’d think he was having a hard time with his breakup, but he hasn’t invited me to go out with him even once. He avoids me at the bar by having me work different shifts than him. So, I’m certain he’s still upset about the whole party thing.

It makes me feel like shit, and I’ve just about had enough of it. I can’t stand walking on eggshells around him, worrying that one misstep will send him over the edge. We need to just get it out of the way now. “Uncle Grant,” I say, voice harder than it has any right being. He doesn’t move his eyes from the task at hand. I swipe the thin layer of sweat from my forehead, heaving a sigh.

“Don’t call me that.”

My mouth falls open. “Seriously? I told you I was sorry more than once for what I did last weekend. If it’s going to be like this for the rest of the summer, just take me home. I refuse to stay where I’m not wanted.” The words rush from me until I’m nearly out of breath.

His eyebrows scrunch together, and he finally looks at me, squinting against the bright sunlight. “What the hell are you on about, Hendrix? I just think you’re a little too… old to still be calling me your uncle.”

I cock my head to the side. He seems exasperated with me, like having this conversation is sapping the life out of him. “Fine, but that doesn’t explain why you’ve been avoiding me all week.”

He turns sheepish, glancing away. “I haven’t been avoiding you. Just taking time to myself after the break-up.”

He’slying,and he’s so shitty at it. It’s written all over every anxious line of his face.

“And you’re not going anywhere. I told you that already. Quit making me repeat myself.”

A thrill shoots down my spine at his stern, gruff tone. I could easily misinterpret those words to mean he actually likes having me here and doesn’t want me to leave because I make his life exponentially better. Unfortunately, that’s far from the reality of this situation.

He finishes filleting the fish and gathers it all up, giving me an unnecessarily wide berth as he stomps back inside. I roll my eyes and follow him. My skin is oily from the suntan lotion I slathered all over it, and that distinct beachy coconut smell fills the house as I walk in.

Grant is all grumpy as usual, his face twisted in a scowl in the kitchen, so I decide to lighten the mood. I get closer to him and pull down the waistband of my neon green shorts. “That’s a killer tan line; check it out,” I tell him with a goofy grin.

He stops what he’s doing and trails his eyes from my head down to my bare chest—I tryreallyhard not to flex my abs. When he reaches the distinct line of golden tanned skin in stark contrast with my usual pale skin, he stills, eyes lingering there. His throat bobs, tension pouring from him in waves before he tears his gaze away. “Nice.”

My brows knit together as I let the waistband snap back against my lower abdomen. Great, so now I’ve made him uncomfortable just by showing a little skin. I clear my throat, rubbing the back of my head. “You need any help with dinner?” Luckily, it’s Thursday, so I don’t have to work tonight, although it’s starting to feel much less like a chore and more like a second home. Sky is the ultimate coworker and friend, and there’s just something about serving alcohol to the same people every week that brings you closer together. I know about their jobs, their families, thegossip.But it makes me appreciate staying in for the night even more.

“No, just go get dressed—I mean, get washed up. Dinner will be done soon.” He stumbles over the words, and I look down at what I’m wearing in confusion. Just shorts, but he wears just shorts, too, so I don’t see what the problem is. Yeah, mine are a little shorter than his. So what?

I sigh and head to the bathroom for a quick shower, stewing on it the whole time. There’s no way he’s being homophobic—he never cares what Sky wears to the bar. So, I’m pretty sure he understands that clothes don’t have a gender, or maybe he just doesn’t give a shit about something like clothes. He’s not exactly fashionable considering his only outfit is a variation of jeans and a shirt, which suits him just fine, really. Yet, he has made a comment about these shorts the first time I wore them and again just now.

I root around my underwear drawer until I find my one of my thongs. With a smirk, I put it on, the black, stretchy cotton material fitting over my junk like a glove. I look in the full body mirror, admiring the way the black fabric disappears between the round globes of my ass. It makes me feel a million times more confident. I pull on a pair of my more loose-fitting sweatpants. The idea that the thin band of the thong might show is exhilarating.Wonder howUncleGrant will feel then.It’s not like he’ll tell me to go change my underwear.

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