6. Clover
It's after 2 AM when we finally lock up. Navy, bless her observant heart, takes one look at my face and offers to handle closing. "Go home, Clover. You look like you're about two seconds away from committing a felony."
Banks is waiting outside, leaning against the brick wall of the building with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. The streetlight catches on his jawline, highlighting the stubble that's somehow gotten even sexier throughout the night because he clearly didn't bother to shave this morning after interrupting my shower to get his razor. Which, for some reason, just pisses me off even more.
He straightens up when he sees me.
"I figured you might want some company on the walk home," he says.
"What I want," I say, starting down the street at a brisk, angry pace, "is to not be treated like I'm some fragile little thing who can't handle a drunk idiot."
He falls into step beside me, his longer legs easily matching my furious stride. "I never said you couldn’t handle it, Freckles."
"You didn't have to say it. Your actions said it loud and clear." The cool night air does absolutely nothing to cool down my simmering frustration. "I've been dealing with obnoxious, drunk guys since I started bartending. I don't need you charging in like some goddamn white knight."
"It wasn't about you needing me, Clover." His voice is low and careful, like he's trying really hard not to piss me off more. "It was about me not being able to just stand there and watch some jackass disrespect you like that. Especially when he put his hands on you."
"But that's exactly the goddamn problem!" I whirl around to face him, the words exploding out of me. "You don't get to decide when I need protecting, Banks! Just because you're bigger and stronger doesn't give you the right to step in whenever the hell you feel like it!"
"That's not what this is about, Clover."
"Oh, really? Then enlighten me. What’s it about?"
Banks stops walking, his expression shifting, hardening into this fierce, almost possessive look that makes the tiny hairs on my arms stand up. "It's about the fact that I've been looking out for you since you were seventeen years old. Don't expect me to suddenly stop now."
I stare at him, my mouth hanging slightly open, completely and utterly speechless for a second. "What in the actual hell are you talking about?"
He runs a frustrated hand through his already messy hair. "Why do you think those entitled frat guys suddenly left you alone your freshman year? Or why the bartender at O'Malley's who wouldn't take no for an answer suddenly found a job across town? Or why your handsy Econ professor took that unexpected 'sabbatical'?"
The pieces of the puzzle click into place with this sickeningly clear thunk in my brain.
"You've been… interfering in my life?" My voice rises with each word, going from disbelief to full-blown fury in about two seconds flat. "Behind my back?"
"I promised Kasen I’d look out for you, okay?" He takes a step closer, backing me right up against the brick wall of a café that’s closed for the night. The rough brick scrapes against my back through my thin shirt. "After your mom died, he was worried about you. Said you’d gotten reckless, that you were taking all kinds of stupid risks."
"So what? You've been my secret bodyguard all these years?" Anger surges through me, hot and furious, and I've never wanted to punch someone in the face more in my entire life. "Do you have any freaking idea how unbelievably insulting that is?"
"It wasn't like that."
"Then what was it like? Please, enlighten me."
His hands come up, pressing against the brick wall on either side of my head, effectively trapping me. His body is so close I can feel the heat radiating off him, smell that familiar mix of fresh air and smoke that clings to his skin, mixed with his delicious cologne. His eyes drop to my mouth, and for one heart-stopping, terrifying moment, I think he's going to kiss me. My lips part involuntarily, my breathing going shallow and uneven as I desperately try to remember all the very good reasons why that would be a catastrophic idea.
"I promised your brother I'd protect you," he says, his voice dropping to this low, rough whisper that sends a shiver straight down my spine. "But don't for one goddamn second think that's the only reason I can't keep my eyes off you." His gaze flickers back up to mine, and there's a raw intensity in his eyes that makes my knees feel a little weak. "There's nothing brotherly about what goes through my head every single time you walk into a room, Clover James."
My breath catches in my throat. The anger that was just boiling inside me suddenly turns into something else—something hot and undeniable that’s begging me to reach out and close the small distance between his body and mine. His admission hangs in the cool night air between us, and ho-ly shit .
I can feel his breath ghosting across my face, see the frantic pulse hammering in his throat. If either of us dared to move even an inch, our lips would be touching. The mere possibility sends a jolt of pure electricity through my entire body, making me hyper-aware of every single point where we're almost, but not quite, making contact.
Before I can decide what I’m going to do, he abruptly pushes himself away from the wall and starts walking again, leaving me standing there frozen in place while I try to get my shit together.
"You coming, Freckles?" he calls over his shoulder, his voice rough around the edges. Yeah, he was just as affected by that as I was. Am.
I follow him in stunned silence, my mind racing a mile a minute as I try to make sense of the bomb he just dropped. Did Banks Freaking Priestly just confess to having actual, non-brotherly thoughts about me? After years of teasing me and basically treating me like his little sister? After apparently playing some kind of secret guardian angel in the shadows of my life?
We reach my apartment building without exchanging another word. The silence between us is thick enough to cut with a knife, charged with everything that was just said and everything that was left hanging in the air. Every step feels like navigating a minefield of emotions I am so not equipped to handle. Banks unlocks the door and holds it open for me, his hand lingering on the doorknob. I brush past him, totally tuned it to every single molecule of air that separates our bodies.
"Clover," he says quietly as I make a beeline for my bedroom.
I pause in the doorway, not even bothering to turn around. "I'm exhausted, Banks. Whatever this is, it can wait until tomorrow." And honestly, I don’t think I’m strong enough to stop tonight if we get close to each other again. I need to rebuild my defenses.
Thankfully, for once, he doesn't push. "Good night, then."
I close my bedroom door behind me and lean against it, letting out a shaky breath. "Well, Mojito," I mutter to the sword fern plant thriving on my windowsill, "your girl is officially in deep, deep shit." I've been having one-sided conversations with my plants since college—partly because some study I vaguely remember said it helps them grow, but mostly because they're the only living things I know who don't talk back or judge my questionable life choices. "I can't keep doing this. He's everywhere. Touching everything. Looking at me like… like…" I trail off, realizing I'm gesturing wildly like some kind of lunatic.
Eventually I give up on working out my thoughts with my plant and crawl into bed. But does sleep come easy? Nope. Instead, I lie wide awake, staring blankly up at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of Banks moving around in the other room. The quiet clink of a glass in the sink. The soft, almost silent padding of his bare feet across the living room floor. The groan of the futon as he settles his huge body onto it.
And then, of course, my brain decides this is the perfect time to start wondering what it would be like to have him in here with me. In my bed. With his hands all over me, his big, solid body pressing me down into the mattress, crowding me until he's the only damn thing I can see. The only thing I can feel.
God, what the hell is wrong with me?
The wall separating my bedroom from the living room suddenly feels thinner than a sheet of paper. He's right there , just on the other side, probably lying awake too, staring up at the ceiling just like I am. Is he replaying what he said? About what could’ve happened if either of us decided to move even an inch?
Is he lying there regretting his confession, or is he plotting exactly what he’s going to say when we talk about it tomorrow? And why in the ever-loving hell can't I stop hoping he doesn't regret it?
I roll onto my side, punching my pillow. This whole arrangement was supposed to be temporary. A simple, no-big-deal favor for Kasen that would last three months, and then my life would go right back to normal. Instead, one freaking week in, and everything is completely upside down. My routine, my personal space, years of diligently practiced 'I don’t want to bang my brother’s best friend at all’ denial—all of it dismantled with just one stupid sentence.
And the scariest part of all this? The part that I can barely even admit to myself in the dark, silent safety of my bedroom?
I don't want him to stop looking at me the way he did tonight, like I'm some precious, maddening puzzle he suddenly wants to solve. Like he's wondering what I’d sound like if I were screaming his name. I don't want him to take back a single word about what goes through his head when he sees me. In fact, I kind of want to hear more. Every single explicit, underwear-soaking detail.
I’m up and halfway through my third batch of cinnamon rolls before I even realize what I'm doing. There was absolutely no way sleep was going to happen with the way my thoughts were spiraling out of control. Banks is passed out on the couch and I’m trying to be quiet, but he must’ve been tired enough that he’s sleeping through everything.
Flour dusts my arms up to my elbows, and the kitchen counter has completely disappeared under a chaotic landscape of mixing bowls and measuring cups. Baking usually manages to calm my frazzled nerves, but tonight my hands won't stop shaking. Banks Priestly has not only invaded my apartment but has also set up permanent residence in my brain, and the only way my subconscious knows how to deal with it is to bake enough pastries to feed a small army.
"He’ll be gone in less than three months," I whisper, needing to hear the reminder out loud so it really sinks in. “You can do this.”
If I'm being honest with myself, there's a growing feeling that there's no timeline in which Banks doesn't leave some kind of permanent, irreversible mark on me. And I'm just really, really afraid I'll never be able to move on.