6. Brenna
6
brENNA
“So, explain something to me.”
“Anything,” I tell Mell, fairly confident that whatever she wants explained to her, she already knows. She’s my best friend. There isn’t anything I haven’t told her. Or wouldn’t tell her.
“What was with the weirdness between you and Milo the other night?”
Except for maybe that.
“What weirdness?”
“I’m sorry, did we experience different Friday nights? Or was I the only one there when the keg exploded and he grabbed your boobies in front of God and everyone, and instead of the two of you bursting into a fit of giggles like I expected, you stared at each other like you were the ghosts of your dead grandparents. So…what’s with the weirdness?”
Oh. That weirdness.
“Errrr…how much time you got?”
“GPS says three hours and forty-nine minutes.”
“Well, buckle in… ”
I heave out a sigh, opening the cabinet and looking for everything I need to get my recipe going. If I’m going to do this, I’m going to multitask. Nothing soothes the embarrassment of reliving a moment like that quite like baking.
Launching into my story, I spill it all, not leaving anything out. Including the fact that she happened to call almost immediately after it happened and was talking to me after I’d been blue-ovaried. Not that I was getting that orgasm back, even if I had tried. Nope, it was lost and gone forever.
“Okay, okay, one more time,” Mell says, sucking in a long, audible gasp, clearly trying to catch her breath.
From laughing. At me.
“I’m not telling you again,” I chide. Because I’m not. Once was bad enough.
Almost as awkward as living through it.
“Then let me make sure I have this correct…” Mell pauses, sucking in another breath, this time for dramatic effect. If she weren’t too busy driving, I’m sure she’d be adding in a drum roll, just to up the ante. I hold back rolling my eyes, but only barely. “So there you were, auditioning the finger puppets?—”
“Auditioning the finger puppets? Seriously?” I cut her off, placing the mixing bowl in the dishwasher.
“Engaging in safe sex? Dialing the rotary phone? A little ménage a moi? Checking the undercarriage? Diddling Miss Daisy?”
“How many of these euphemisms do you have?”
Good Lord, my bestie is apparently a one-woman urban dictionary for female masturbation.
“Oh, I could go on all day,”
“Let’s not, shall we?”
Cutting off the faucet, I squeeze out the excess water from the sponge, glancing over at the oven timer. I still have a few minutes, so I busy myself with wiping down the counters, Mell’s voice loud and clear through my earbud.
“Right, so you’re getting lost in the deep end, thinking sexy thoughts of Milo Hayes, imagining just what that beard would feel like between your thighs, and then suddenly, he’s there. Just walks on in like he owns the place.”
Pretty much…
Things not on my hot-girl summer bingo card—my older brother’s best friend walking in on me jilling off.
My older brother’s very sexy best friend.
“I was not thinking about him. And he does own the place, remember? It’s his apartment. And you left out the part where he tripped as he was trying to escape, and I went to help him up and instead thrust my boobs in his face.”
Mell cackles again, the sound of her slapping the steering wheel reverberating through the phone, and I can feel my cheeks heating up. She is my best friend, and I know that her reaction comes from a place of love, but I’m still so embarrassed I could crawl into a hole and die. Seriously, Milo and I could not be off to a worse start as roommates.
The oven timer beeps, the high-pitched sound cutting through the air and my conversation. I busy myself with pulling the glass pan out of the oven, checking the middle of the dish. It’s still a little soft, so I slip it back in, giving it a few more minutes.
“And this was when?”
“Wednesday.”
“So then Friday was…what?”
“The first time we had even looked at each other. Which, I mean, what you witnessed was basically the only seven words we’ve said to each other since this all went down. Plus the boob cleaning.”
“So it’s been four days of the two of you in the same apartment and neither of you has acknowledged the moment? ”
“What is there to acknowledge?” I ask, throwing my arms out wide in exasperation. “What am I meant to say? ‘Sorry, Milo, didn’t expect to ever introduce you to Sherlock, but now that you know about him…’”
“Could always ask if he wants to take Sherlock’s place,” she teases.
“MaryEllen Kathleen Davenport!” I hiss, silently thankful that she’s not questioning my vibrator’s nickname.
The timer beeps again, and I sigh, turning back to the oven. This time the center is nice and firm, so I pull the baking dish out and set it on top of the oven. The chocolatey goodness wafts through the air, filling my nostrils and making my heart happy, a steep contrast to the knot my stomach is still in.
“So, you two have been what? Acting like nothing happened?”
“I told you, we haven’t actually spoken.”
“At all?”
I sigh again, leaning against the counter. My body relaxes, all the worry seeming to release from my muscles. At least for the moment.
“Just that little bit Friday night at the bar. In the apartment, we’ve just kinda been scurrying around each other, trying to avoid the other person, and if we are in the same place at the same time, avoid eye contact at all costs.”
Because I’m not sure I can look Milo in the eyes ever again…
“Is that why you’re stress baking?”
“I’m not stress baking!” I defend.
Except, I am. Sort of.
“Sure you aren’t, Brenna. Sure you aren’t. So tell me, Twix cups or Slutty Brownies?”
“Slutty Brownies,” I mutter, hating that she knows me this well .
Because not only does she know that I’m stress baking, she knows what I’m stress baking. Maybe it’s time I tried some new recipes. Although, considering the occasion, a tried and true favorite is called for.
“Yum. Oreo or peanut butter cup?”
“Peanut butter cup. It’s Anton’s favorite.”
“You’re stress baking for Anton? Why? It’s Milo who saw you naked. And then cleaned your boobs.”
She has a point. Which is probably why it sounds a little strange to her that I’m dropping the name of one of Milo’s brothers and not him. But I have a good reason.
I suck in a breath—time to drop the next bomb. Here goes.
“Oh, did I not mention that part? I’m invited to Sunday dinner at the Hayeses’ tonight. Because, you know, I like to take awkward to the next level.”
Mell is silent for a moment. My heart starts to race the longer she doesn’t speak. It’s not like her to be stunned into silence.
“Know what I think?”
“No, but I bet you’re going to tell me.”
“I think this is your chance. To get out of the lab coat and into the latex!”
Errr…what?!
I push up off the counter, my body freezing midair. She wants me to…what?! I didn’t hear her properly. There’s no way. Mostly because what she said didn’t even make sense. But also because…if she’s suggesting that I… No…no, she’s not. There’s just no way.
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“Neither do I, but it sounded good in my head,” Mell replies, laughing. “Fits our hot-girl summer theme. Very on brand. ”
“Latex is on brand?” I question, turning back to my brownies.
I gently tap the sides of the pan, checking to see if it’s cooled down enough to put in the fridge. The glass is warm to the touch still, so it’s probably a tad too soon, but I’m also on a timeline, so I’m going to risk it. Push comes to shove, it cracks and I have to buy the boys a new baking dish. Still won’t be the worst thing that’s happened in this apartment this week.
“Sure?” Her tone doesn’t sound sure about anything, but I don’t push it. I’ll let her have this one. “Oh, gotta let you go. Jon’s calling.”
“Tell him I say hi!”
We hastily say goodbye, and I tap my earbud to hang up the call and switch back to my music. The up-tempo melody and heavy beat surround me, helping me to get lost in the smooth as whiskey voice of Dustin Wild.
I’ve always loved Dustin’s music, and not just because he’s a hometown boy, but because there’s something about it that resonates with the soul. Something so real and true about it. Plus, it was fun to brag while at UGA that I knew him. Most people didn’t believe me at first, but after he did a show in Athens, giving me an all-access pass to hang with him and his band, I became the stuff of legends.
Okay, legends is a bit extreme. But I certainly didn’t have anyone questioning me when it came to Dustin after that.
Turning my attention back to the counters, I sanitize every flat surface I can find, making sure that every last bit of stray cocoa powder and sugar is cleaned up. I will not be responsible for ants getting in here. Because if ants get into the apartment, that means they could get into the beer. I think. I assume. Truthfully, I’ve never put a whole lot of thought into it, but I’m not risking it. There will be no ants.
The song changes over, the sweet, borderline whimsical chords of “Chasing Falling Stars” winding into my ears and around my heart. It’s one of those songs that you can’t help but sing along to, and I don’t stop myself. I have the apartment to myself, so sing I shall.
And dance.
Because this is also a song you can’t help but dance to. One where all you can do is picture yourself in the arms of someone you love, so lost in each other nothing else matters, moving in time with the beat. Closing my eyes, I let go, giving in to the rhythm, almost able to feel the embrace of?—
“Ahhhh!”
The tap on my shoulder startles me. No, not startles—scares the shit out of me. My scream is loud enough that it can probably be heard from space. Internally I freeze. Externally…I lose control of my limbs.
Arms and legs flailing, I spin around, half trying to throw a punch at the intruder and half hanging on for dear life so I don’t fall.
Spoiler alert—I fail at both.
My hand connects with the face of the person opposite me, the momentum of my swing—if we can call it a swing—taking my whole body with it, crashing into them, both of us tumbling toward the ground. Which we hit—hard and with a loud crash.
Fuck!
“Arrrgggg…”
The low, gruff groan that comes from underneath me makes both of our bodies rumble, something that in any other moment might be enjoyable. Only, I recognize that voice. And if I’m right—which I know I am—this isn’t good.
Slowly, I open one eye, hoping I’m wrong.
I’m not.
Milo groans again, shifting slightly underneath me. Panic takes over and I fumble, trying to move, but only succeed in rubbing my body against his.
His very hard, muscular body.
Great, just great…
For an educated, mostly confident twenty-something woman, I’m doing a very poor job of showing that off.
“Milo!”
Gaining some composure, I push myself up, embarrassment taking over again. At least this time I’m not naked.
“Hey, Brenna,” he greets, the trepidation in his voice clear. “Sorry, I thought you heard me come in.”
“Nope, too busy jammin’ out.” I giggle.
I try to look at him, but the second our eyes meet, my heart stops. Oh hell, when did he get so cute? Actually, that’s a stupid question. Milo has always been cute. More than cute. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have a crush on him when I was little.
Not a real crush. Not the kind that makes you draw hearts on your notebook, pairing your first name with his last. No, it was the kind of crush that little girls get on their older brothers’ friends who make them laugh. Who are willing to play dress-up with them before heading off to a Friday night football game, or who lets them crash their prom pictures.
Because that’s what six-year-old Brenna did—crashed Brandt and Milo’s prom pictures. Just ask my mother, and she’ll gladly show you the proof.
“I…I was just making a dessert for tonight,” I offer up, trying to fill the silence.
“Oh,” Milo responds, clearly not able to look me in the eyes either. At least we’re on the same page. “Miss Belle will be delighted. What’d you make?”
“Slutty brownies.”
“Slutty what—” he cuts himself off, eyes going wide, right before letting out a loud, deep guffaw. “And what exactly makes your baked good reputationally challenged?”
“Peanut butter cups,” I answer quickly. “It’s a layer of cookie dough, then peanut butter cups, topped with brownie batter.”
Our eyes lock and Milo smirks. A sinister, panty-melting smirk. Fuck me.
“Peanut butter cups. I look forward to trying your…peanut butter cups.”
Oh, I’ll let you eat my peanut butter cup… NO! I did not just think that…
I need to change the subject, stat.
“Err, ummm…is that what you’re wearing?”
I nod toward his T-shirt. Royal blue with the image of a nametag sticker on it, the name Amanda Hugginkiss scrawled into the name slot.
A man to hug and kiss… Yes, you are…
“ This? Ha…no,” he tells me, back to avoiding my gaze. “Miss Belle would shoot me if I wore this to Sunday dinner. I’ll put on a button-down.”
“Oh, okay. Good to know.”
“Right, so… I’m gonna hop in the shower. Meet you by the door at four thirty?”
“The door?”
I panic again, trying desperately to remember if I forgot something. But I got nothing. Absolutely nothing.
“Unless you have plans after, I figured we’d ride together out to Magnolia Manor.”
Oh. My insides ease, and I heave out a long, heavy breath. If he wants to carpool over to his parents’, then things between us can’t be that bad. Sure, they’re a bit tense, but time will ease that. We’ll be back to pseudo brother and sister in no time.
Phew !
“I’d like that.”
“The door at four thirty then. Don’t forget the sluts.”
He gives me a wink, then turns on his heel, heading toward the bathroom.
“Slutty brownies!” I correct him, barely holding back a laugh.
“I’ve heard it both ways!”