Tiebreaker (It Takes Two 2)

And then it occurs to me, I’m in town two whole minutes and fall right back into old habits. Somebody needs to kick my ass. I’d do it myself, but as it stands I can’t even get the groceries in the house.

He places the helmet on the seat. A helmet? Mmm. That’s new. The Noah I knew would sooner wear a paper bag over his head. I guess some things do change.

When he spots me, I duck into the cab of the truck and pretend to organize the bags. He’s probably smirking. I can practically feel his eyes on me and my skin starts to itch. It’s like I’ve developed an allergy to him. Then again, everything about him is an irritant.

“Still watching me, huh?” comes from directly behind me, humor in his voice as usual.

Asshole.

Well, this is definitely not the comeuppance I’ve been dreaming of for the last ten years.

“Just checking to see if you’re wearing your scarlet letter. Wouldn’t want any unsuspecting females thinking you’re a stand-up guy. Better yet, why don’t you get that tattooed on your forehead.”

“How’s the wrist?”

“None of your business.” I fumble with the groceries some more.

“At least you’re talking to me. Although I’m not surprised, you never could resist my charms.”

The edge of my vision turns crimson, similar to the blood I’m about to spill. I’m really not in the mood to be the source of his amusement.

“Say another word and I will rip off your charms––”

“Later, killer.” He smiles crookedly. “Let me get the groceries first.”

Leaning in, he reaches inside the cab of the truck and I’m immediately assaulted by the scent of laundry detergent, and a bunch of sweaty, sticky memories I’d love nothing more than to permanently forget.

The bare skin of his arm brushes against mine and I jerk back. No doubt that was on purpose, devised to get a rise out of me. And the bastard is succeeding. Problem is, as much as I’d enjoy telling him to take a hike, I need help.

Once he’s grabbed the bags in the truck, he goes for the ones in my hand. “I’ve got it,” I bark, trying to hold onto them.

“Don’t be stupid. You’ll set your recovery back if you keep trying to use it.”

We exchange equal glares and both hold on and while that goes on, it happens––I’m transported back in time. I swear I’m ten and he’s thirteen and standing on his lawn. As different as he looks, the rest of him, the essence of him, is exactly the same.

I let go and he transfers all the bags to one hand while hoisting the water over his shoulder as if it weighs nothing. Without looking back, he walks into the house. Meanwhile I hang back. To figure out what to say. Gather my wits, if you will. Basically, I’m stalling. I actually have to force my legs to carry me inside, toes dragging the entire way.

I hear him moving around in the kitchen and poke my head in. He’s putting the groceries away, moving around as comfortably as if he owns the place. He certainly knows it better than I do.

After he places the carton of almond milk in the refrigerator, he turns to face me. There’s enough static in the room to make my hair stand on end like a lab experiment gone bad and yet his expression is the very picture of calm.

I don’t believe in soul mates. Not anymore. Not since that awful night so many years ago. Chemistry, however, I believe in. Mix one agent with another and you can generate one heck of a powerful reaction, explosive even if you’re not careful. Chemistry is what makes it easy to mistake lust for love, and attraction for something deeper. This crazy thing between us––the snap, crackle, pop that never goes away. That hasn’t dulled, not even a little. Chemistry. Nothing magical about it.

“Do you have a key to this place?”

He walks around the kitchen counter and leans back against it. Crossing his arms, he takes his sweet time answering, “Yes.”

“I want it back.” The itch under my cast acts up. My attempt to scratch it proves both futile and frustrating. And the assessing stare fixed on me isn’t helping matters; it’s making me fidgety and nervous. Which aggravates me to no end because I don’t get fidgety. And I sure as heck don’t get nervous.

I stare down balls coming at me at 100 monster miles per hours without flinching––fluorescent ones, not scrotums. I lean in. That’s who I am. He’s right, I am a killer. Not here though…and full disclosure, if scrotums were coming at me at a hundred miles per hour I would probably do more than flinch, I’d run.

“It’s for emergencies.” He exhales loudly. As if bored with the conversation. “In case anyone in the family needs to get in.”