Chapter 11
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Audrey
“What. The. Heck?” I groan, rolling over in bed.
The sound comes again, echoing through the cabin. I thought I dreamed it. Apparently not.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
“Ugh.” My stomach gurgles as I roll the other way, laying one palm flat against it. “What time is it?” I bat around on the nightstand until I feel my phone. It takes more coordination than necessary to click the button on the side. “It’s noon?”
Knock! Knock! Knock!
“Oh, for the love of goodness,” I grumble, sliding my feet to the hardwood. The floor is cold beneath my toes, and I consider saying, “Forget it” and climbing back into bed. But the knocking is relentless.
I grab a robe off the chair by the door and throw it on. Wishing I had time to brush my teeth before seeing another human, I pop by the full-length mirror leaning against the wall.
Short lavender sleep shorts, a plain white T-shirt, and bedhead. Nice.
The knock comes again, so I hurry toward the foyer. The sound is either louder, or it’s louder because I’m closer. I haven’t been awake long enough to think that clearly, and calculating distance has always felt like math, which I avoid like the plague.
I squint into the bright sunlight flooding the house. “Who is it?” I call out, running my fingers through my hair in a vain attempt at presentability.
My voice echoes around me as I reach the entryway, and I can’t deny the annoyance thick in my tone.
But considering I got virtually no sleep, it’s afternoon and I’m not caffeinated, and I came home alone last night yet again despite putting myself out there like I’ve never done before—whoever is on the other side of the door better be happy that I haven’t checked off the self-defense lessons part of my list yet.
“It’s me.” Brooks’s voice is clear and crisp … like he slept like a baby.
I replayed our conversation a million times throughout the night, trying to determine how this was going to work.
He said I’m his for the next week, which—dreams do come true.
But we have to do it his way, whatever that means, and if doing it his way means me coming home alone, he’s missing the point.
Most of it, anyway.
I wrinkle my nose. “I’m sorry. Can you be more specific?”
“Why? Do you not recognize my voice?”
“Not really. You vaguely sound like a guy I saw in a bar last night.”
“Was he good-looking?”
“Terribly,” I say, fighting a grin.
“Charming?”
“At first. But he wound up being a jerk so it kind of negated his looks.”
“Did he promise to make you come?”
Oof. I grab the door handle for a bit of stability. “Actually, no. He didn’t. He made ambiguous statements to that effect and then sent me home with his friend which, under the circumstances, felt very …”
Brooks chuckles. “Open the damn door, Doc.”
“Fine,” I say, as if it kills me to give in to him.
And there he stands. Black joggers span his long legs, and a white T-shirt peeks out from a gray hoodie. A black baseball hat sits backward on his head, allowing me a clear view of the scruff dotting his jawline. Does he just wake up this delicious?
“Good morning, beautiful,” he says, toggling a bag in the crook of his arm. He gives me a satisfied smirk as if he knows he’s gotten to me already.
“Don’t try to butter me up,” I say.
“Well, that answers that.”
He makes a face at me as he walks by. The air dances with the scent of his cologne mixed with something fresh. Body wash? Laundry detergent? I can’t make it out, but the combination is heavenly.
“I need to throw some clothes on and brush my teeth,” I say, taking a step back just in case I have morning breath. Some of us don’t get out of bed looking perfect.
“Okay. I brought lunch. Are you hungry?”
“You can just leave it on the table and then let yourself out.” I smile at him. Sweetly. “Good to see you.”
He smirks, plopping the bag down on the table. “I like it when you’re sexually frustrated. This is going to be fun.”
“I think you misunderstood the assignment.”
“Oh, trust me, Doc.” His eyes flash with mischief. “I understand the assignment perfectly.”
Our gazes lock, lingering so intimately that it’s indecent. Neither of us looks away. Neither of us blinks. The heat between us rises, growing more charged and electric as the seconds tick by, and my pulse quickens.
It feels like he’s playing a game with me, but he’s not. He wants me as badly as I want him. I can see it. I can feel it. I can almost taste the temptation in the air. Knowing a man like him—a beautifully controlled storm—wants me is an aphrodisiac like no other.
“Get dressed and let’s eat,” he says, turning back to the bag.
“He says he understands the assignment and then tells me to get dressed,” I say just loud enough for him to hear as I turn my back to him.
My bare feet smack against the hardwood as I race back to my bedroom. Every piece of me tingles and goose bumps race across my skin. I can feel a part of my brain waking up and activating for the first time in far too long. Maybe ever.
And, somehow, it makes sense. With Brooks, I’m freer, feel funnier, and more alive than I’ve been in years. Maybe Heraclitus was right—the tension of opposites generates the music of life.
It takes three minutes to throw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and run my toothbrush around my mouth.
I skip skincare and the calf raises that I like to do in the morning because knowing Brooks is in the other room and we’re about to revisit our conversation from last night, I hope, makes me want to run to the kitchen.
But I don’t. I half-run like a lady.
Mom would be proud.
Brooks is digging through the bags when I return.
“Piper’s makes the best chicken sandwich in the universe.” He pops open the top of one of the bigger containers. “It’s crispy chicken with cheese, some kind of aioli, pickles, and Piper’s homemade slaw.” He looks up at me. “Sound good?”
“Sounds even better if you also brought fries.”
“Of course. I’m not a monster.” He opens a small box filled with golden brown steak fries. “I forgot ketchup, though.”
“That won’t be the worst thing you’ve done to me in the last twelve hours.
” I pull two glasses from the cabinet and make us each a tea.
I don’t have to turn around to know he’s trying to suppress a chuckle.
“Thank you for bringing food. I have nothing left here besides an apple and a jar of peanut butter. I need to go to the store today.”
He pops a fry into his mouth as he organizes the food. “How are you feeling this morning?”
I shrug. “Okay. I will say, though, that drinking is overrated. Beer tastes like garbage, and it sloshed around in my stomach all night.”
“As I said, it’s an acquired taste. Definitely not for everyone.”
I hand him a glass and then sit across from him. “Good to see your arm is still attached.”
“It’s still here but sore as a motherfucker. Ran to Doc Burns’s office this morning and got an antibiotic and checked my Tetanus shot records. Mom was on my ass, so I did it to appease her.”
“You did?” I nod approvingly. “That’s good. Is it infected?”
“Nah. Burnsy was madder than hell that I didn’t come in when I cut it, though.” He lifts his sandwich to his mouth. “Not the first time he’s been mad at me. Won’t be the last, I’m sure.”
I consider pointing out that I now know that money wasn’t what was keeping him from the Urgent Care like he insinuated but decide to let it go.
Instead, I take a bite of the chicken and nearly moan in delight.
The meat is juicy, the aioli tangy, and the slaw perfectly crunchy.
It’s the perfect sandwich. How did Astrid not mention this?
Seems like a necessary thing to share with your best friend.
“Jasper said that you and Markie got along well last night,” Brooks says.
“Yes. Markie is adorable and so fun. They make the cutest couple.”
“She’s all right.” He takes another bite. “Her sister, Mira, used to date Hartley.” He pauses while he chews, seeming to reconsider his statement. “I don’t know if they dated, now that I think about it. But Hart has had a thing for her as long as we’ve been alive.”
I take a sip and wonder what the story is between them. “So, she’s not into him?” I nibble the end of a fry. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Fuck if I know if she’s into him or not. They’re not together, so my guess is no.”
“Come on,” I say, pointing a fry at him. “Where’s the small-town gossip?”
He takes another bite of his sandwich, watching me over the top of it with crinkled, amused eyes.
“You’re not nearly as good at this as Lisa,” I say, chomping off the end of the fry.
“My apologies. The next time I’m with Hart, I’ll ask for a full breakdown of his relationship with Mira and then report back.”
“That would be appreciated.”
He shakes his head as he takes a drink. “It’s not that big of a deal, I don’t think. Mira’s just … Mira. She comes and goes as she pleases. The girl doesn’t have a mean bone in her body but she’s … feral, I guess, in a way. I doubt that works well for Hartley.”
Probably not.
My spirits sink as I imagine Hartley pining for a woman he can’t have. I have tragically been there and done that, and it sucked. And I hate that he might be feeling that, too.
We sit quietly, enjoying our lunch and the sun streaming through the windows. There’s a warmth settling over the kitchen, and I wonder if it’s coming from the sunshine … or him.
I’ve only known Brooks for a short time, yet I can take a full breath when he’s near.
There’s no pressure to be anything I’m not, or an expectation to act in a certain way.
I don’t have to be the sweet Audrey that everyone knows and that’s liberating.
In fact, I might have uncovered a bit of sassiness and snark—or, at least, it’s found its way to my lips instead of lying dormant.