Birthday Girl

“Two,” I tell Dutch and toss the cards I don’t want back at him.

Shifting his eyes from his own cards, he pushes two more over to me, and I fit them into my palm and examine the new hand. It’s shit, but I do have two sevens, so it’s not a complete loss.

Not that I care. I’m not a competitive man—at least not when it comes to poker—but hosting these get-togethers once a month at my house gives us something to do while we talk. I dart my gaze up to Dutch and then flash my eyes around the table, seeing Todd, one of my foremen, as well as Eddie, John, and Schuster either exchanging or rearranging cards. Everyone puts a few bucks in the middle, and Todd raises us by three more. Everyone takes the bluff…hoping it is a bluff.

“I am not excited about my girls growing up, I’ll tell you that,” Dutch says, flashing me an amused look.

“Why?”

He just shakes his head, sighing. “That noise would drive me nuts. For now, all I have to endure is the occasional sleepover with a gang of giggling eight year olds.”

I chuckle under my breath, the pounding from upstairs starting to feel like walls caving in. I wince. It’s only about nine-thirty. If it’s still this loud in an hour, I’ll tell Cole to turn the music down or the neighborhood will be on my ass. It wasn’t supposed to be a party, but I’d encouraged him and Jordan to have some friends over, so it’s my own fault, I guess.

“It wasn’t so long ago we liked quite a lot of noise,” I mention, tossing him a grin.

The guys laugh, mumbling their agreement. We’d all graduated together, and it was a happy turn of events that a few of us now work together, although John and Schuster don’t, being a cop and a roofer, respectively.

It hadn’t been long since we were a lot like Cole—making messes and having too much fun in our mistakes. I was the first to get thrust into adulthood, but we still kept close over the years. Marriages, kids, a divorce—we’d all been through the ringer, and it was a wake-up call one day when I realized I’d been waiting for my life to start—my real life—only to realize that it had already happened when I wasn’t paying attention.

That train I was waiting to catch raced by me without stopping. There probably wouldn’t be a wife, and I would never know what it would be like to have my kids grow up seeing me every day. At this point, I’m too used to being on my own that I’m like an only child.

And an only-child doesn’t know how to share his things.

Todd raises another dollar, and I’m out, followed by Lin, Dutch, and Eddie. Todd collects the pot, and Dutch shuffles all the cards, dealing again.

The muffled music from upstairs all of a sudden blares louder and clearer, and I hear footfalls on the stairs followed by a slammed door. Bare feet appear on the stairwell, the legs coming more into view the lower they descend.

Jordan bends down, peeking under the basement ceiling at us. “Hey, do you mind if I grab the Otter Pops out of the freezer?”

Everyone glances up at her, turning their heads, and I gesture, barely sparing a glance from my cards. “Yeah, go ahead,” I reply quickly.

Liquid heat runs down my arms, and I stare at my hand, struggling to concentrate, because she’s all I’m aware of now.

She hurries down the rest of the stairs, her footsteps light and quick like she’s trying not to be seen or heard as she dashes over to the wall to my right and lifts the lid of the big freezer.

The room has grown quiet, and I’m not sure if the guys are afraid to talk normally, because there’s a woman in the room or if they’re distracted. I stare at my cards and search my brain. What were we talking about a minute ago?

Oh, kids. Right.

I hear things being moved in the freezer and glance over, my gaze immediately falling to her feet. She’s on her tiptoes and bent over, holding the lid up with one hand as she digs in the huge container. She seems to be aware of her shorts and that she’s bending over in front of a table of guys, because she keeps straightening every few seconds and pulling her shorts down as much as she can.

Her toes are painted a soft pink, and I can tell she’s wearing a bikini top under the gray T-shirt. The strings are visible tied behind her neck, and I can see more of it through the sides of her sleeveless T-shirt which are cut out, showing off the curvy, sun-kissed skin of her waist. The muscles flex in her thighs, and my stomach swoops up and around.

I start to glance back at my cards, but I catch her pushing her hair behind her ears, and that’s when I notice the little holes in the T-shirt. Up on the shoulder, by the seam.

Is that…?

“Isn’t that your shirt?” Dutch leans in, whispering.

I squint at it a little, and then I notice my baseball number in faded, chipped green peek out from behind her hair. I knew I recognized those holes.

I look away. I must’ve left it on the furniture the other day, and she picked it up, thinking it was Cole’s maybe? He was in baseball, too, I guess.

And she cut out the sides of it? I kind of want to be angry at the loss. I’ve had that shirt since high school, but…

It was too shabby to wear in public anymore, anyway. And she looks better in it than I ever did. I glance at her again, seeing the shirt drape over her smooth, sun-kissed skin, and a subtle wave of pleasure creeps in that she’s wearing something of mine on her.

I shift in my chair, blinking at my cards to get past the stars in my vision.

“Need a hand?” Eddie offers her.

Flickering my gaze to Jordan, I see her bend over into the freezer, and I furrow my brow.

But Todd comments, a sly humor filling his tone. “Oh, leave her alone. She’s doing just fine on her own.”

The guys chuckle, unmistakably enjoying the view, and Jordan swings back upright, hefting the box of Otter Pops into the crook of her arm. She arches an eyebrow at Todd while letting the lid slam shut.

I brace myself for her smart mouth, but instead, she saunters to the table and looks over his shoulder and down at his hand. “Oh, look at that,” she says, her eyes lighting up and her voice chipper. “You have all the kings in the deck. What luck, huh?”

Dutch snorts, and I can’t help but shake with laughter as everyone joins in the amusement. Everyone except Todd, who throws down his cards, giving up his hand now.

She fixes a self-satisfied smile on her face and makes for the stairs again. I’m half-tempted to tell her to make sure no one gets those popsicles in the pool, but I’m trying not to micro-manage her and Cole like they’re kids.

“Oh, hey, can I ask you a question?” she says, stopping half-way up the stairs.

I meet her eyes.

“There’s a little cake in the refrigerator,” she goes on. “Cole’s begging to eat it, but I didn’t buy it and wasn’t sure where it came from. Just wanted to check with you before he digs in.”

Fuck. I keep my face straight despite my aggravation. I can feel the guys’ eyes on me.

“Oh, uh, it’s a…” I mumble, shaking my head and pretending to study my cards again. “I, uh… I got it for you guys…today, at the store…for both of you.”

She doesn’t say anything, and after a moment of completely, uncomfortable silence, I glance up. She cocks her head, looking confused.

I toss three cards at Dutch for him to pass me three more, although I’m not sure which three I just discarded.

She’s still looking at me. I can feel it.

I rush out with more info, hoping she’ll say something and get out of here. “I was just passing Etienne’s and remembered you didn’t get any cake on your birthday,” I tell her, acting nonchalant, “or a chance to really celebrate. I just thought you guys might like it.” I grab three new cards off the stack when Dutch fails to pass me new ones. “I was passing by anyway. No big deal.”

If it wasn’t a big deal, I wouldn’t have felt suddenly weird about it when I came home. It was stupid to get it in the first place. She’s not my kid.

But for some reason, passing the window and spotting the three-layer cake with pink roses covering every inch, I thought of her. I guess I was just still trying to make up for acting like a dick the other day.

And the other night she mentioned blowing out candles, making wishes…. She didn’t get to do that properly on her birthday—donuts don’t count—so I felt bad even though it wasn’t my fault. Buying it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Bringing it home felt sentimental, though. Too sentimental. I stuck it in the fridge, hidden in the pink box, waiting to see if the mood struck me again before I just threw it out.

“But yeah, it’s yours, so let him go for it,” I finally say, sparing her a quick glance before looking back down at my cards.

“Weren’t you going to tell me it was there?”

I shrug. “I forgot about it, I guess.”

The lie doesn’t sound convincing, but her excited voice saves me from the heat of everyone’s eyes on me.

“Well, in that case, then no,” she states firmly. “He can’t have any. It’s mine.”

My heart warms, and I can’t help it. I look up slowly. She’s smiling at me as she ascends the rest of the stairs.

“Thank you!” she calls, and then I hear the door open and the music flood in before it closes again.

Pink. I bought her a fucking pink cake like she’s seven. With roses on it. Did she see the cake? Does it look like a little girl’s cake? Or worse, something romantic? They had cakes with balloons on them. They had plain cakes. Fuck, I’m an idiot. I didn’t even think.

I throw down my cards, closing my eyes, and running my hand through my hair.

“Just a minute, guys,” I say, pushing back my chair and moving around the table, toward the stairs.

A few snickers and chuckles explode behind me as I leave the basement and run after the kid.

You know, it wasn’t long ago I could think clearly. I wasn’t constantly doubting every move I made and listing every possible outcome for a single action and how Jordan would respond to it. I haven’t been this confused about anything in a long time.

Pushing through the door at the top of the stairs, I hear the blare of I Love Rock ‘n Roll coming from the backyard and the splash of someone jumping into the pool. I’d tasked Jordan with collecting keys for anyone drinking, but if the neighbors decide to call the cops because of the noise, my safety measure to keep kids from drunk driving wouldn’t save me from the illegality of letting minors drink here in the first place.

Although I have a cop downstairs, so I’m guessing the odds are on my side.

I enter the kitchen, catching glimpses of the party-goers outside, and see Jordan by the refrigerator, pulling out the pink box with the cake.

She turns around and sets it on the island, looking up and meeting my eyes. “I’m not going to eat it yet,” she says. “Otherwise I’ll have to share it. I just want to see it.”

Apprehension creeps in as she lifts the lid, and there’s an apology on my lips even as I see her break into an excited smile.

I walk to the fridge and get a soda I pretend I came up here for. “Sorry if it’s childish,” I tell her. “Not sure what I was thinking.”

She crosses her arms and folds her smile between her teeth, like she’s trying to contain herself, but it’s not working. I can see the blush on her cheeks in the dark kitchen and the way her breath is trembling.

She turns her head toward me. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a cake this pretty,” she says. “Thank you for thinking of me. It’s a nice surprise.”

She looks back at the cake, a whimsical look in her eyes.

Great. Now I feel worse. She looks like this is the nicest thing someone has ever done for her, and wouldn’t that be fucking sad?

It kind of is a pretty cake, though. The frosting is designed into roses and starts off at the bottom in white and slowly grows pinker by row as it moves toward the top where it’s finally evolved into a dark hot pink.

See, it wasn’t stupid. I knew she liked pink.

“It’s pink on the inside, too,” I tell her. “Pink cake, I mean.”

Her smile grows bigger.

And it’s not made for kids, now that I remember. The cake is made with champagne, the sales lady said.

Ok, I did good. My head finally evolves into the perspective I had when I bought it, and I feel less tortured.

She dips her finger into a rose and brings it to her mouth, sucking off the sugar. My gaze freezes, watching the way her lips purse and her tongue dips out to lick the tiny bit of frosting left off the tip.

I groan inwardly, unable to stop myself from wondering how warm her mouth is.

I clear my throat. “Uh, I completely forgot candles,” I admit, moving for the drawer behind me, “but I know you have to do this, so…”

I pick out a box of matchsticks next to the pot holders and light one, going to stick it in the center of the cake, but I stop. “Should we call Cole inside?”

She glances out the window and then waves me off. I stick the matchstick into the cake.

I watch as she closes her eyes, exhales a breath and relaxes her shoulders, and then slowly, a small smile curves her lips. Instinctively, I smile, too, like I don’t know what she’s thinking, but I think I know what she’s feeling in that moment.

She blows out the matchstick and opens her eyes, the stream of white smoke billowing in front of her face.

I stay by her side for a moment, not wanting to budge.

Someone should be holding her right now. Someone should be coming to stand in front of her, putting both his hands on the counter at her sides, and feeling her breath against his face.

I breathe a little faster, imagining what she tastes like.

And then I reach for the soda can I’d set on the counter and fist it until the aluminum crackles.

That’s not good. Those thoughts aren’t good.

I walk away, swallowing three times to wet my throat, and I grab the cassette tape container from my truck off the counter and slide it across the island to her.

“And that’s for you, Birthday Girl,” I say to distract from any vibe I might’ve just been giving off. “You’re welcome.”

Her eyes fall on the black container, recognizing it, and widen, her jaw dropping. “What?!” she exclaims. “Are you seri—no way!” She smiles brightly. “I can’t take these! They were your dad’s.”

I nod, now feeling safer with the island between us. “My dad would want someone to have them who’s going to love them. You’ll love them, right?”

It’s not like I ever play the damn things. I just listen to whatever’s on the radio. She seemed pretty in awe of them, so it was the only thing I could think to give her that she’d want.

She holds up her hands animatedly and makes a face like she doesn’t know what to do with me. “But…” She trails off, scoffing. “Pike, I…”

“You want them, right?” I ask.

She scoffs again, making a face. I can see the struggle in her eyes. To her, it’s a valuable gift, and she doesn’t have a right to them. But she’s also dying to take them.

“Are you serious?” she asks, cupping her face in her hands.

I can’t help but laugh. She’s fun to make happy.

She scoops them up and hugs them. “I have tapes. I have a collection. Shit!” she bursts out. “I feel so bad, but…I want them, too. So, I’ll take them.”

She feigns an apologetic look but laughs which amuses me even more.

“Good,” I say.

And I feel better now, too. At least I’ve hopefully made up for my behavior earlier in the week. With this and the garden, she seems elated.

I move away from the counter to take my leave, but she stops me. “Oh, wait.”

Spinning around, she removes a tray from the fridge and walks over to me, setting a bag of tortilla chips on top and handing it all over to me. “I made an extra taco dip for you and the guys.”

I look down at it, my stomach immediately growling. “Oh, you didn’t have to do that.” We usually order wings and pizza. But this actually looks really good. “Thank you. They’ll love it.”

She smiles, and for three long seconds we’re locked there, in each other’s stares. Almost as if the air is so heavy with something else that we can’t move.

Finally, I inhale a breath and back away. “Make sure they clean up when they’re done, okay?” Not make you do everything, I want to add but don’t.

She just rolls her eyes at me, and turns back to her tapes.

A loud thud wakes me from my sleep, and I jerk awake, blinking my eyes into the darkness. What the fuck? I could’ve sworn the bed had vibrated, too. It takes a moment to place all the sounds outside, and then I hear the beat of muffled music filtering in through closed windows.

Jesus, they’re still up? I look over at the clock, seeing it’s just after one in the morning. I throw off the sheet and yawn, running my fingers over my scalp.

It’s fucking hot in here.

I sit up, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed and stand up.

Walking across the room, I open the door and head down the hallway and the stairs. At the bottom, I check the thermostat and kick on the AC. Seventy-nine degrees in here. I’m willing to compromise, but that’s unbearable. It doesn’t help I have to sleep in pajama pants now that there are people in the house, but I’m afraid I’ll wake in a start and forget I’m fucking naked.

I walk into the kitchen, keeping the lights off, and stop at the sink, peering out the window into the patio. I’m surprised the cops haven’t been called. It’s less noisy than it was before, but it’s still too damn loud for this late.

I look around the backyard for what caused the thud and my eyes immediately go wide, and I turn away. Seriously, Cole. What kind of friends pull this shit at someone else’s house?

At least two girls are missing the tops of their bikinis, one of them being heavily groped by a guy I can only assume is one of Cole’s buddies as they make-out in the pool. The other girl is lying on a lawn chair, one arm tucked behind her head and her sunglasses on despite the fact that it’s dark out.

I turn around, feeling my pants for my phone. He needs to get those little shits off my property now, but I can’t go out there. Not sure if it would be awkward for them, but it would definitely be weird for me. It’s a safe bet I know their dads, probably.

Where the hell is Jordan? I don’t know why that thought pops in my head, but for some reason, it’s instinct to suspect she’d have a problem with this, too. Where the hell is my phone?

I remember it’s plugged into my charger next to my bed, and I head back up the stairs and down the hallway, entering my room and pulling it off the cord.

At least most of the party has cleared out, by the looks of it. It shouldn’t be too hard to get rid of the remaining eight or so. But the backyard is a mess, and I’ve been more than gracious about this. He better not ask for another damn party for a long time.

Heading back down the stairs, I dial Cole on my phone as I stop just inside the kitchen. Holding it to my ear, I listen as his line rings.

But I soon here a tinkling coming from somewhere in the living room and look behind me to see a light coming from the arm of the couch. It’s Cole’s phone lighting up with my call. Goddammit.

Hanging up, I tap my thumb and click on Jordan’s name, dialing her instead. But as I’m about to hit Send, I glance up and suddenly pause.

She’s there. Standing in the shallow end of the pool, thigh deep, with her arms locked to the front of her body, trying to keep her top on as Cole pulls the tie at the back of her neck. He stands in front of her, staring down, as she shakes her head, trying to resist, but smiling all the same. I can see her embarrassment from here.

A flood of feelings hits me, and so many thoughts swim through my head as I try to look away but can’t.

Don’t look at her, I tell myself.

And my fist curls around my phone, willing Cole to leave her alone, too. She obviously doesn’t like it.

And I don’t like it.

But I can’t keep my eyes from rising to her again, seeing the pink seashell bikini she’s wearing and the thin straps slowly spilling off her skin.

God, she’s beautiful.

I feel a knot wind painfully inside me, taking in her long hair falling against her bare body, and her arms, the only thing holding up the scraps that cover her anymore.

I run my hand over my face, trying to rub away the shame, because if I were Cole I’d be handling her very much the same but a lot more privately. I wouldn’t want anyone else seeing what I get to see.

Blowing out a breath, I drop my eyes. This night needs to end. Maybe I should cut the electricity, so everyone will leave.

But before I have a chance to move, I see that Jordan is out of the pool and moving toward the window. She holds her top with one hand and slips on my old T-shirt again with the other, reaching in and retying the strings of her bikini once the shirt is on.

Her brows are furrowed, like she’s annoyed, and I arch my head, looking behind her to see that Cole has moved on, laughing and throwing a football to someone.

She heads around the house, toward the back door, and I straighten as she enters the kitchen. I connect my phone to the charger on the counter to make it look like I’m doing something.

“Oh, hey,” she says, pausing when she sees me.

I glance over, clearing my throat. “Hey, everything okay?”

“Yeah, I was just going to…” She hesitates as if looking for an answer. “Cut up some watermelon.”

I nod once and walk over to the fridge, reaching on top and grabbing the fruit for her.

She pulls out a cutting board and chopping knife, and I forget about asking her to break up the party. She doesn’t seem to want to be out there at the moment.

Pulling out the other cutting board next to the fridge, I settle in at the counter next to her and slice the watermelon in half for her.

One part stays on my board, I move the other half to hers, and we both start chopping.

The remnants of the party run around the back yard, some kid catching a squealing girl who’s half-naked, and I drop my eyes again, feeling fucking stupid like this isn’t my house, and I’m some seventy-year-old pervert spying on teens gone wild running around my own damn yard.

I see her glance through the window in front of us and then quickly to me, probably gauging my annoyance. There are topless women in my backyard, after all, and I freaked out over her wet T-shirt mowing the lawn the other day.

But instead, I resort to sarcasm this time. “Do you think Cramer next door is enjoying the view?”

She snorts, faltering in her chopping, and follows it with a laugh.

After a moment, though, I hear her taunting voice. “Are you?” she replies.

I widen my eyes a little, surprised, and look down at her. She casts me a cocky little smirk.

“You’re still young,” she points out, joking with me. “Still look energetic. Why don’t you go out more?”

Who says I don’t go out? My bar-hopping days are over, but I had friends over tonight, too. Granted that’s not ‘going out’, but I’m not a hermit.

“You’re not gay, are you?”

I shoot her a look. Excuse me? Didn’t we talk about my dating habits the other night?

But she shakes her head right away, clearing it. “Yeah, never mind. Didn’t think so.”

Jesus.

Granted, I don’t have as much of a social life as I could. I know that. I’m not even forty yet, and my downtime resembles my grandfather’s retirement.

I pause a moment, searching for the easiest words to explain it to her. “I like my boring life,” I tell her, my voice kind of sounding like an apology. “Most women don’t.”

“Maybe girls don’t,” she replies, a light humor in her voice that I appreciate. “I find you far from boring. You should go out more. There’s a shortage of men in this town. Too many boys.”

I smile to myself. She sees me as a man, not just someone’s father. I shouldn’t like that as much as I do.

And yes, there may be lots of boys, but there are also lots of women, and none of them are for me. Believe me, if my future wife lived in this town, I would’ve found her by now.

She slices one of her sections in half and turns it sideways to cut triangles in twos. I follow suit.

Outside, a young woman with a long brown ponytail scurries across the pool deck, her orange bikini making her tanned skin look darker.

I jerk my chin. “Should I go after her?”

Jordan glances up at the girl outside the window and drops her eyes again, continuing to slice the fruit. “She’s too hot for you.”

“You think I can’t keep up?” I joke, cutting off two more triangles. “I’ve been around the block, you know?”

“Several times by your age, I’m sure. Need a nap yet?”

Why, you little—

I slice through the fruit, and the knife comes down, its point jabbing me right on the inside of my middle finger on my left hand.

“Shit!” I drop the knife and bring my hand up, the ache sinking down to the bone. I suck in air through my teeth. Dammit.

“Oh,” Jordan gasps and drops her knife, too, wiping off her hands. “I’m sorry.” She offers a regretful little laugh. “Here, come here.”

I suck the blood off my finger, barely taking notice that she’s pushed me down onto a bar stool at the island as she retrieves bandages from the cabinet.

Did I put those there? I didn’t put those there.

Rushing over to me, she peels a package open, and I see it’s a wet wipe, probably “anti-bacterial” something or other.

“I can do it.” I hold out my hand.

But she moves in anyway, inspecting the pea-size drop of blood balling on my finger again. “I know,” she says, “I just feel bad. I didn’t mean to piss you off and distract you. I was just teasing.”

I hiss as whatever’s on the wipe hits my open wound. “You didn’t piss me off,” I tell her, but it comes out as a growl. “Well, you did, I guess. You always do, but it’s in a good way.”

“In a good way?” Her brows furrow.

Yeah, like, you know, fun. You’re fun. And kind of funny. And pretty interesting. I don’t know how she makes my temper rise so quickly, and over stupid, petty shit, and I can’t explain why, but I like it.

I don’t know how to tell her that, though. It sounds weird.

When I don’t answer the question, she continues, her voice quiet and serious. “You know,” she says, not looking at me. “If you are interested in her, I can bring her around more. If you want.”

The girl in the orange bikini?

“Bring her around?”

She nods, wiping my finger still. “A sleepover or something maybe. You won’t have to make a move. She’ll jump you.”

She won’t look at me, but I stare down at her nevertheless. She wants to get me laid?

I feel a warm, light sweat cover my spine as I become aware of the heat of her body standing between my legs. I watch as she blows hair out of her face only for it to fall back into the same place again.

Orange Bikini isn’t the one I want jumping me.

Absently, I reach up and brush the hair out of her eye, grazing her forehead as I tuck it behind her ear for her. Her gaze rises, meeting mine as I let my hand fall down the strands of her smooth hair, and my heart skips a beat as we both stand there, locked.

I can almost feel her face in my hands. The urge is so strong to know what it’s like to hold just a part of her.

Jesus Christ. I drop my hand, looking down at the small wound on my middle finger.

“So do you want me to?” she broaches quietly, almost like she’s afraid of what I’m about to say.

I shake my head. “No,” I finally tell her. “She’s not bad, but she’s not what I like.”

She unwraps a Band-Aid and fastens it to my finger, slowing smoothening over the bandage again and again.

My fingers tingle where she holds them, and I watch her face, her focus still not leaving my hand.

And then suddenly, she nearly whispers, “Well, what do you like?”

I watch as she licks her lips, her breathing shallow, and the jolt to my cock, feeling damn near ready to tear something apart with my teeth.

What is she doing to me?

“Women old enough to drink, for starters,” I retort, pulling my hand away.

She quirks an eyebrow. “Yeah, like you’re some bar-hopping partier yourself.”

Yeah, she’s right. I drink at home.

“But good.” She sighs, backing up and planting her hands on her hips. “I didn’t really want to set you up with her.”

“Why?”

“I don’t think she’s your type.” She tosses away the wrappers, ease in her eyes now. “Plus, I’d be jealous. I like being the only woman in the house.”

“And if I had said yes?”

She shrugs, feigning an apologetic look. “Well, then you just wouldn’t get your new favorite burgers the way you like them anymore.”

I grin, shaking my head. So presumptuous.

But yeah, actually I do love her way of making burgers better.

She takes my hand, giving my little wound a good once-over.

“It’s fine. Thank you.” I stand up, forcing her back a little. “Go on out with your friends.”

She turns her head over her shoulder, gazing outside, but she doesn’t look in the mood to party anymore.

“What are you going to do?” she asks, walking back to the watermelon and loading the big bowl with the pieces.

“Try to get back to sleep, I guess,” I tell her.

Hopefully she doesn’t mess with the AC, and I can stay asleep.

Making my way out of the kitchen, I rub my finger, feeling the ache of the stab.

I glance back at her and see her eyes already on me over her shoulder. She quickly turns back to her work, and I just want to stay.

After a long moment, I swallow. “’Night,” I say.

But before I make it into the living room, I hear her voice behind me. “What did you mean, ‘in a good way’?”

Her eyes are on me again, and I lift the corner to my mouth in a small smile. I’m not sure what to say that doesn’t sound completely inappropriate.

Finally, I just decide to spit out the easiest answer, turning and heading for the stairs. “I like talking to you,” I say over my shoulder.