And hungry.
I face him, and he faces me, and it occurs to me how small I feel suddenly. Like my giant ego has deflated a little, and I’m just now realizing how tall he is.
I don’t look at him. “Thank you for the food,” I say. “I’ll pay you back.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and I know he’s not asking for his money back. He wouldn’t.
But he knows I can’t owe him.
He simply replies, “I know you will.”
And it’s done. We talked and didn’t fight, and it’s strange how I’m suddenly glad I don’t have to leave him.
“Here,” he says and reaches over, pulling my jacket off my shoulders. “Let me wring it out. We’ll wash it.”
It takes a moment, but I agree. Nodding, I let him pull my coat off, and I slip my hoodie over my head, the hat coming with it.
I drop everything to the landing and kick off my boots, not wanting to track mud into the building. Finally, I look up at him to see him staring down at me.
I stand there a moment. My drenched hair hangs in my face, mud coating my black pants and arms, turning my white tank top a grungy brown. Drops of rain hit my feet and spill down his chest that I didn’t realize was bare until now.
Something warms, low in my belly, and for just a second, I’m a teenage girl. Something throbs, and I suck in a little breath, looking away.
“Astronomy,” I say.
I look up, and he cocks his head, looking puzzled.
“I like…astronomy,” I tell him something about me. “I used to dream I’d be an astronomer when I was twenty-five or thirty.”
Since he asked.
His smile is small but beautiful, and I dive down to gather up my nasty clothes before he touches them.
Hawke
She doesn’t need anyone to save her. Maybe that’s why we’ve been fighting so much. I resent that she’ll always find a way to eat. To pay the bills. To get out of one scrape before she gets into another, even if it means lying, stealing, and conning.
I resent that there’s a right way to do things and a wrong way, and she always seems to choose the wrong way.
But I stare at the footage recording from the garage—drugs and young girls and a toddler running around on screen in the worst possible environment…
And maybe I don’t know everything. Maybe there is no right way. You eat or you don’t.
I log onto social media, sweeping the sites and seeing my hoodie and hers visible in several videos from Fallstown—a few comments noticing me too.
I came back to the hideout a few hours ago and tried to track her phone, but there was no signal. She probably threw it away.
You okay? I text Tommy as I walk for the kitchen.
I dropped her off after Aro left the race, but there’s still no certainty that they didn’t see her at the garage today.
A text rolls in. Yeah, why?
I almost laugh as I open the fridge and dig out a beer. For a kid who looks like she’s going to cry every time someone looks at her wrong, she pulled off a dangerous job today with amazing ease.
Thanks for helping, I simply reply.
Ur welcome.
I set my phone down, but then it beeps with another text.
I’m free tomorrow, Tommy writes.
And I chuckle, shaking my head and mumbling under my breath, “I’ll let you know, kid.”
I drop the phone onto the island, but then I hear Aro’s voice behind me. “So, does your cousin not have boobs or something?”
What?
I turn my head and see her standing there, freshly showered with her wet hair fanned around her and hanging down her arms.
My face falls a little.
Something flips inside me, and I draw in a sharp breath, looking away. I close my eyes for a second. “I…” I shake my head. “I have no idea. I never looked.”
Jesus Christ. I open the drawer and pull out the bottle opener, my neck sweating.
“I mean, the jeans are fine,” she explains, “but the shirt is…”
I swallow and glance back, seeing her pull at Dylan’s white JT Racing T-shirt, the curves of her breasts creating two half-moons that are still visible even as she tries to keep the fabric from clinging to her body.
A sliver of skin peeks out above the waist of her black jeans, tears and holes in the pants giving an eyeful of her tawny skin and shape.
I pop the top of the beer and take a swig, trying not to look, but she was hiding a lot under that hoodie and hat. Hair hangs in her face, rich, dark eyes—almost black—peering at me through the wet strands. I drop my eyes to her mouth…
I take another drink.
She continues to tug on the shirt, trying to keep it away from her body. When I don’t say anything, she shifts on her feet, an awkward silence filling the room. “So, you said there was a washing machine?”