Page 35 of Don't Let Me Go (Don't Let Me 2)

Before he has a chance to finish his stupid excuse, I grab the edge of the door, ready to slam it closed when Theo’s hand slaps against it, keeping it open.

“Come on, Blake,” Theo grumbles. “Will you just listen––”

“I don’t want to hear your bullshit excuse.”

“It isn’t bullshit.”

“That’s exactly what it is. You don’t want me around because for some messed-up reason, you still look at me like I’m the scared little eight-year-old who fell and scraped her knees while trying to keep up with her older brother and his friends who were playing roller-hockey on the street.”

I gulp and pull away slightly, surprising myself with my assessment just as much as it surprises Theo.

But damn, it felt good.

To admit my feelings. To call him out for his bullshit. I bite the inside of my cheek, stopping myself from steamrolling over him with another monologue. Instead, I wait. For him to deny it. To tell me I’m blowing things out of proportion. To tell me I’m pouting and acting like a child. A child he still sees me as.

He shifts the bag from one hand to the other and rocks back on his heels. “You’re right.”

My eyes widen in surprise. “Two concessions in a row, Theo? Are you growing soft on me?”

His mouth lifts, but he doesn’t answer me as his warm gaze rolls over my body, starting at the top of my head and drifting down my front. Which is when I realize just how little clothing is covering me. Nothing too crazy or anything, but I’m only wearing a baby blue crop top––no bra since I’m flat as a board––and a pair of black sleep shorts.

And yet here he is, my kryptonite, staring at me. Oh, what I’d give to read minds. To read his mind. Especially in this moment. When it’s only the two of us. When he’s been open and honest with me for the past few minutes. When I’ve been given a glimpse of the boy I fell in love with. The one without a stick up his ass.

What are you thinking, Theo? I want to ask, but I don’t. I won’t.

Instead, I ignore the swell of butterflies in my stomach from Theo’s wandering gaze. Gathering my proverbial armor, I pop out my hip, plaster on a grin, and say, “Eyes up here, Teddy.”

He chuckles, as shameless as ever, and meets my gaze again. “Mind if I come in?”

“For what? So you can lecture me about the importance of modesty in my own home?”

Without waiting for an invitation, he steps inside, mumbling, “Once a smartass, always a smartass.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“Since when do my lectures get me anywhere with you?” he counters.

The man has a point.

I watch from the doorway as he saunters into the family room, taking in the used leather couch, dark wooden coffee table, and bookshelf beside the television.

He hasn’t been here since he helped me move in a few months ago. And it’s weird. To have him in my space. Even when we were kids, he never went into my room or anything. And even though the family room and open kitchen floor plan are technically shared with the rest of my roommates, it still feels intimate somehow.

Because I don’t share this space with my brother. It’s just mine. Which means, if he’s here, standing smack-dab in the middle of my family room, it’s because he wants to see me. Not Colt. Me.

The question is… Why?

“Do you remember when we were kids?” he asks, still studying the space like it’s the surface of the moon.

I snort. “I think you’re gonna have to be more specific.”

He continues his perusal, reading the book titles on the shelf as he clarifies, “When your mom got mad at me and Colt for teaching you how to swear.”

With a grudging laugh, I mutter, “Yeah?”

“Do you remember what we taught you after? To get around it?”

“You mean like Cheese and Rice for Jesus Christ?” I ask, watching him carefully.

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