Runaway Girl (Girl 2)

“I don’t know. When you do something nice…” Jason nods at the tray of drinks. “I get this annoying urge to reciprocate. So knock it off.”

“You don’t really want me to knock it off.”

He crosses his arms, braced like a warrior for battle. “Don’t I?”

“No.” I hesitate to let him know I’ve been paying such attention. “You like to keep people safe. Don’t you think that’s nice?”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. “It’s more of a necessity. I can’t turn it off.”

“Well, it makes people feel secure. Telling me you liked the wine and waltzing for Birdie…” I turn and fuss with the garnishes again. “Those gestures are an extension of making people feel safe. Maybe you’re nice after all.”

I can almost hear the cranks turning in his head, but it’s entirely possible he just wishes I’d shut up. “My three minutes is up.” I pick up the tray. “Come with me. As man of the house, you have to make an appearance.”

He grunts. “Let me carry that.”

“Absolutely not.” I twist away, careful not to spill a drop. “This isn’t the same thing as grocery bags. This is a presentation.”

“My mistake.”

He’s chuckling as he follows me, and my mouth moves into an answering smile. “I shall let you open the door, Mr. Bristow.”

“After you, beauty queen.”

We pass through the kitchen door, swing through the dining room and bank right into the living area. Seven teenagers are sprawled in various positions around the room, Birdie standing in the midst of them flipping through television channels. Her shoulders are bunched up tighter than double knotted shoelaces. I’m surprised by a kick of nerves in my own belly. I’m not sure if I’m anxious to make a good impression for Birdie. Or if I’ve simply gotten to the age where packs of teenagers become more intimidating than a herd of raptors.

“Hello!” I set the tray down on the coffee table, pleased when the teenagers sit up a little straighter. “Who’s thirsty? There’s no alcohol in these, so don’t go ringing the police on me. Not until I do something fun to deserve it. How was everyone’s day?”

A smattering of “goods” are issued from around the room. The girls are definitely more engaged than the boys, their phones at the ready to snap pics of my mocktails, although one of them is open-mouthed staring at Jason.

He smirks at me to let me know he notices. I shoot him back a frown.

“Listen, if you all get hungry, just holler. I’m Naomi and this is Birdie’s brother, Jason.”

I nudge him with an elbow and he coughs. “Hey.”

“He’s not as scary as he looks,” I say.

Birdie snorts. “Have you seen what he leaves in the shower drain?”

Laughter kicks up around the room and her shoulders relax. I don’t mind one bit that she broke the ice at Jason’s expense, and his nonchalant shrug says he couldn’t care less, either.

“Oh my God, these are so good,” one of girls groans. “Birdie, your house is the new chill spot. My house is gluten free—our snacks suck.”

I barely resist the urge to squeal. “We have chocolate-covered cashews. Should I go grab them?” I throw Birdie a wink. “There might be some gelato lying around, too.”

“I love gelato.”

“Please. That sounds amazing.”

“Birdie, I’m like, never leaving.”

The last thing I see when I back into the kitchen is Birdie slipping in between two girls on the couch. She looks a touch uncomfortable but relaxes when everyone lapses into an easy conversation about the school principal’s questionable hygiene. And when I hear a roll of laughter coming from the living room, I throw my arms up in a victory V, just as Jason enters the kitchen behind me. We trade a smile over my shoulder and something warm twines down my belly, slithering like a serpent over my thighs.

Not good. I’m barely able to put a name to these distracting sensations he sets off in me and they’re only getting stronger.

“I’ll just get the gelato…” I manage, moving to the freezer. I’m thankful for the rush of cool air that flows over my bare shoulders, but when the tendrils of white clear away and I reach for the gelato I tossed in earlier, my hand closes around cold, hard glass instead. I pull out the unopened bottle of wine, staring down like a foreign object. “What’s this?”

“Been keeping it in there,” Jason answers in a gruff voice. “In case you ever decided to come for dinner.”

“It’s Sauvignon Blanc.”

“That’s the one you like, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but you remembered.”

I glance back to find him watching me with a raised eyebrow. As if to say and? Oh, and this is very dangerous, this particular gesture. I’ve tried to limit the comparisons of Elijah and Jason. But this one is too on the nose. In desperation, I try to call Elijah’s face to mind, but it won’t appear as long as Jason is looking at me. Moving toward me. Taking the bottle out of my hand and putting it back in the freezer. Against my good judgment, I look up and back to find him close. To find his expression has gone from questioning to knowing. He can’t know, though. I can’t tell him why it’s significant that he remembered my favorite drink.