“It’s a good story actually.”
Her thin brows rose and I watched her finger slide down her temple and tuck a few stray strands that had escaped her ponytail behind her ear.
Mind-fart. It was a term that never came into play with me. I always had something to say, but my head at that moment was a big-ass fart. Seriously, nothing. Haven would see through any bullshit I fed her. Even through text, she had a bullshit radar and she wasn’t afraid to call me on it.
I shrugged. “Didn’t happen.”
“Obviously.” She glanced at my shirt thrown on the kitchen chair and my guitar case on the table, then over to the puddle of beer on the floor I had yet to clean up.
“I thought I had more time. Then the rest of the tour was canceled . . .”
“One venue.”
Fuck. “Yeah.”
She cocked her hip and placed her hand on it. “So you and Kite never bought a place?”
“We put in an offer. It was rejected.” Because I low-balled it. The truth was I wanted to come back to the farm for a few months and decide where I wanted to live. Kite didn’t give a crap where he lived; his train of thought was a house didn’t deserve attachments because it didn’t give anything back except problems and bills. Yeah, because it was a fuckin’ house.
“The real estate agent says there isn’t much out there with our wants and needs. And she’s been really busy fighting with her ex who wants custody of the dog. Some little foofoo thing. I have to admit, it’s kind of cute. She emailed me a picture of it in these little sneaker boots and winter jacket with a—”
“Does this story have an ending?”
Hmm, and how to answer that because my ending was certainly different than what she wanted to hear, but I’d discovered the truth was always the best with Haven. “Well sugar, I low-balled the offer so we wouldn’t get the place.” Fuck, I wanted to see her tuck her hair behind her ear again. “I wanted to hang here for a while longer.”
“Hang?”
I shrugged. “Sure.”
Oh, she didn’t look impressed. Her hackles were raised as her chin hitched up a notch and her angel-like eyes weren’t angel-like anymore as they darkened and narrowed. “Ream know?”
Ream and I were like brothers after my parents fostered him. He’d just turned seventeen and was in the custody of child service. A little late fostering a seventeen-year-old, but my parents said they’d seen something in Ream when they’d gone to make their quarterly donation. My mom said he’d been sitting against the wall, knees bent, arms casually hung over them. But what his body language displayed wasn’t what my mom saw in his expression—anguish. Pure anguish, so deep she feared what it would do to him being locked in the system for a year.
They’d come home and discussed whether I’d be cool with them taking in a foster kid. I didn’t give a shit one way or other. My parents had always been involved with kid charities and social services. I was surprised it had taken them this long before there was another kid living with us. It had been a shock seeing Ream as I’d expected a younger kid. I soon found out why my parents took him in. Ream was completely fucked up.
“Nope.”
“So, what will you tell him?”
Now that was the trick question, wasn’t it? I tapped my fingers on my crossed arm then pushed off the couch, which landed me right in front of her. Fuck, I could smell her hair, a mixture of coconut and kiwi. Every time I smelled the stuff while on tour, I’d been reminded of her.
Yeah, there was no question Kite was right. I had one hell of a hard-on for her, but Haven was off-limits, and it wasn’t because of Ream and his pussy-ass threats. Okay, not pussy, Ream would try to kick my ass, optimal word try. It was because she wasn’t a chick to just fuck and walk away from. Not that you could even get close enough to get her to want to fuck you. But I was trying to penetrate, bad choice of words or good, depending on how you looked at it, her armor and I think I’d made progress.
Not that it mattered much. She wasn’t interested. I was confident enough to not let it affect me—too much. After the months of texting, I realized that I enjoyed shooting the shit with her. She had a curt honesty that I liked . . . with what little she shared.
The running I knew she did it to try to bury the bad shit that messed with her, and I suspected one day it’d surface. Shit, I saw a glimpse of it today in the cafeteria.
“Don’t know yet.” I saw that cute little twitch above her left eye. Fuck, it was adorable. Like she was trying to keep herself from smiling. “But, I make one hell of a lasagna. Your brother’s favorite.”
And there it was, a soft huff and crack of a smile. And that right there made me want her more than I already did. I was so screwed.
“No, your mom does,” Kite said, coming down the stairs now wearing clothes—thank fuck. “Haven, he puts the lasagna in the fridge, playing it off as his, but the pink container gives it away. And if that doesn’t do it, the neat handwriting on the lid does.” He chin-lifted to Haven. “How’s school?”
She picked up her bag and moved away from me and into the kitchen. “It’s fine.”
She put her bag on the chair at the kitchen table and Kite asked her about classes. I droned out of the conversation, instead turning the music back up, though not as loud, then strolled into the kitchen, grabbed a dishrag and wiped up the beer on the floor.
Kite was telling Haven about the crazy party at one of the hotels a few weeks ago. Crazy was an understatement. Insane. Psychotic. A wild party of drugs, alcohol and lots of chicks wearing very little clothing and too much make-up. We had to pay the hotel one hell of a damage bill.