5. June
JUNE
My knuckles rap against the heavy door, and I step back, holding the strap of my backpack until my fingers turn white.
I shouldn’t be nervous. Why am I nervous?
Oh. Because I’m in Harden territory, that’s why.
Pretty sure Lexie and Violet are rubbing off on me because before Violet moved in, I didn’t even know there was a thing like Harden and Drift territory.
I mean, I knew there was a shady side of town and a rich side of town, but actual territories? Not so much.
Where are you, Vi?
Violet’s been a busy bee, and I seriously don’t mind it ninety-nine percent of the time.
But ever since I received my midterms for math, I’ve been kind of freaking out.
My lips scrunch on one side as I stare at the heavy—and very unmoving—door.
Did she forget? Please say she didn’t forget.
I wouldn’t put it past her. It’s not that she doesn’t think of others.
It's just…after the last fight night, she’s been a little distracted.
Battling my annoyance, I dig through the top pouch of my backpack in search of my phone so I can give Violet a call when the door swings open.
“Well, if it isn’t my friend of a friend.”
My head snaps up, and my heart stalls in my chest. Here he is.
Ford Harden. In all his half-naked glory.
Looking at me with his emerald green eyes that I swear are directly attached to my ovaries.
It seriously isn’t fair. The Harden genes are no joke, and Ford’s the worst culprit of all.
His hair is damp, and his shirt is missing.
But the signature Ford smirk? Yeah, it’s still very much in place.
And the muscles on this guy? He’s lean, but strong.
So strong, I can practically count the individual abs from here. I fight the urge to squirm. “H-hi.”
Rubbing a towel over his hair, he tilts his head, then folds his arms. “Hi.”
“Hi,” I repeat.
His smirk grows. “Hi, June Bug.”
He’s doing it again. The whole, I’m-not-going-to-throw-you-a-bone bit, rather I’m-going-to-watch-you-fumble-until-you-pick-yourself-up-off-the-ground bit.
He’s done it more times than I can count since we first met.
I’d be annoyed if I weren’t almost grateful.
Not for the awkwardness. Yeah, I could definitely do without the awkwardness.
But for the opportunity to start fresh and lead the conversation instead of simply following along, all because the man is a master at leaving me tongue-tied.
Which he’s done again, all because he answered the door without a shirt.
I square my shoulders and scoot the backpack’s strap a little higher up on my shoulder. “Is Violet here?”
He shakes his head. “Just me.”
Awesome.
His eyes fall on my backpack. “You here to study?”
“Yeah. Uh. Hmm.” I shake my head, fighting the urge to cry. “It’s okay. I’ll just…” I start to turn around, but he stops me.
“What are you working on?” he asks.
With a frown, I face him again. “What?”
“In your class,” he clarifies. “I assume it’s kicking your ass, right?” He pushes the front door open even more. “Let me guess. You have Wheeler?”
My lips part. “How did you—”
“Because Wheeler’s a beast and sucks at teaching. Come on. I’ve got an hour to spare.” He doesn’t wait for me to follow him. He simply walks down the hallway, leaving the front door wide open for me.
“Are you serious?” I call.
“As ED,” he returns over his shoulder, not bothering to offer any other kind of explanation, his back muscles bunching and flexing and still on full display as he disappears around a corner.
ED? What in the world is this man talking about?
It’s strange. Astounding, even. How he’s so confident in everything he does. The way he speaks. The way he moves. The way he leaves the door open, knowing I’ll follow.
How does he know what I’ll do when even I don’t know what I’ll do?
I could walk away. I could climb back into my car and leave.
Or I could stay and maybe learn a thing or two.
Heaven knows my grade needs all the help it can get.
But would that be caving? Would it be giving in to Ford’s every whim?
He’s used to it. That much, I know. It doesn’t matter.
If I fail my class, nothing will. Puffing out my cheeks, I glance back at my car one more time before giving in and stepping into the Harden home.
Technically, it isn’t my first time inside his domain, but it feels like it is.
Maybe it’s because Lexie and Violet aren’t by my side this go around.
Maybe it’s because the house isn’t littered with random people, and the smell of booze is missing.
Maybe it’s because natural light filters in through the massive windows instead of the various light fixtures and the roaring fire being the only glow in the house.
Or maybe…maybe it’s because the only two people in the room are me… and Ford.
“Want anything to drink?” Ford asks. I follow his voice into the kitchen only to find him rummaging through the fridge. The kitchen is nice, too. Big. With warm wood, custom casing, gold fixtures, and appliances that would make most chefs drool. I rock back on my heels and fold my arms.
What in the world am I doing here?
Ford pulls out a couple of energy drinks and sets them on the stone countertop next to a bowl of oranges. “Hungry?” he adds.
“I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
I nod.
“Mind if I make a sandwich while you set up?” he asks.
He doesn’t wait for my answer this time, either.
It’s probably because he’s so used to being told yes that he can’t imagine someone turning him down.
With his head still in the fridge, he grabs a few more items from the drawers, adding mayonnaise, mustard, deli meat, lettuce, a tomato, and some cheese to the counter.
Closing the fridge, he grabs the two drinks and motions to the kitchen table. “Take a seat.”
Why do I feel like this is a bad idea?
My feet stay plastered where they are as he begins putting together a sandwich. Bread, mayonnaise, a squirt of mustard. My stomach gurgles, and his hands freeze in place as his gaze finds mine. “Are you positive you don’t want a sandwich, June Bug?”
June Bug. It isn’t the first time he’s called me this, and I doubt it’ll be the last. You’d think I’d be used to it, but anytime the nickname rolls off Ford’s tongue, my stomach flip-flops, and I have to remind myself I’m not special.
I’m simply a victim of Ford being Ford. Besides, it’s only a nickname, and not a particularly clever one, either. Even so, I can’t make myself hate it.
“Hmm?” Ford prods. “You sure you don’t want one?”
“Yes,” I murmur. “I’m positive. Thank you, though.”
“Really?” He sets the mustard down and rounds the island. Arms crossed, he leans his butt against the countertop, studying me. “Because your stomach says differently.”
“My stomach doesn’t know what it’s talking about.”
“Don’t tell me you’re on a diet or something.”
Diet? Ha! I’ve been on diets off and on since I was twelve, but it’s beside the point. “For your information, I’m saving my appetite,” I reply.
His brow quirks as if he doesn’t believe me. “For what?”
Mustering as much confidence as I can, I answer, “For a date.”
He pulls back, surprised, though I can’t decide whether or not I’m offended.
I mean, I know I’m not the average bombshell most guys like him surround themselves with, but it’s not like the idea of me dating someone is so inconceivable he should be speechless or anything.
I’m cute. I’m nice. I’m friendly. I know people. Some people.
And then it dawns on him. “Bryan, huh?” he muses.
I still can’t forget how put out he looked at the coffee shop the other day. When Bryan walked up and started talking to me instead of assuming I was with Ford. You know what? Maybe I should be offended. What is it with guys thinking it’s impossible for me to be on a date?
“Am I right?” Ford prods. “Did Bryan officially grow a pair after I left the other day?”
“Mm-hmm.”
His nod is slow as if he’s digesting my words before he goes back to his sandwich-making, though I don’t miss the way he adds two more slices beside the bread he’d already been fixing.
Curious, I ask, “What are you doing?”
“Let me guess. You're going to order a salad, am I right?”
“I haven’t decided yet, why?”
“Because all girls order salads on dates.” He scoffs and slathers mayo onto the second sandwich. “Thinks it’ll attract the guy more or some bullshit.”
“Is there something wrong with a salad?” I challenge.
“Nothing wrong with it, especially if you’re not very hungry and shit.
” The sound of the mustard squirting from the bottle acts like an exclamation point before he takes out a few slices of turkey, or at least, it looks like turkey, and adds them to the sandwiches.
“But you, my dear June Bug, are hungry.” He grabs a cutting board from one of the cabinets and a knife from a wooden block.
“Why don’t you set up your laptop while I finish this? ”
My lips bunch on one side, but I do as I’m told, opening my backpack and pulling out my computer, two pencils, a notebook, and a pink eraser.
Once everything is in place, a white plate clinks against the table as Ford sets a sandwich in front of me.
It’s piled high with meat and cheese and lettuce and tomato. My stomach grumbles again.
With a low and slightly holier-than-thou chuckle, Ford sits down beside me and takes a bite of his own sandwich. “You’re welcome.”