Chapter 4
four
WESTON
Seeing Bridget was not on my BINGO card.
Well… maybe that’s more of a half-truth.
I hoped I’d run into her somewhere around town again at some point . There’s something about the way we go back and forth that I thoroughly enjoy.
But everything about this is all wrong.
I shouldn’t even be here, but that guy Sebastian assured me he’d take care of all the arrangements. By the look on her face—borderline murderous—I don’t think that’s a detail I should share yet.
But she wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t shown her this place the last time we crossed paths. Would she? Questions flood my mind, but none of them feel safe or appropriate to ask given Bridget’s current mood.
In my defense, I didn’t realize that I’d keep coming back here. I’m not from here. Yet, it seems to be the only place I feel sort of like myself after my injury.
Clearly Bridget doesn’t share that sentiment.
She’s pacing the floor, the floorboards creaking beneath her precise steps. Is she counting to make sure she’s taking the same amount of steps in each direction?
“There’s bedrooms upstairs. Bailey and I took the one down here.”
She pauses and glares at me. “Can’t be too far from the food, I guess?”
I snicker at her snarky reference to our first meeting.
“More like I try to avoid stairs,” I reply, gesturing to the brace on my knee. “But the proximity to the kitchen is a pleasant bonus.”
Her cheeks bloom red in embarrassment, and she returns to her frantic pace.
“I can’t believe this,” she mutters. “I’m the only one that’s supposed to be here. Why would it let me book if someone else was booked?”
“Looks like the universe had other plans, Spitfire.” I stretch, leaning into the couch.
Her pacing stops like she’s run smack into a wall.
“Oh, that can’t be it.”
I am not a fan of the way she says that. “You realize I was innocently sleeping on the couch and you sat on me , right? Not the other way around.”
She turns to glare at me before she stomps to the front door. I’d laugh at how cute she is when she’s angry if I wasn’t afraid of her wrath.
“I’m going to go get my suitcase.”
“I’ll help,” I say, shoving to my feet.
“I don’t need your help.”
I smirk. “Listen Goldilocks?—”
“Excuse me?” Her mouth drops open, her perfectly manicured brows drawing together. “I did not break into this house . ”
“Sure you didn’t.” If she were a cartoon, I’m pretty sure smoke would be escaping her ears at this point. “But let’s go get your stuff, so that’s one less thing for you to worry about.”
We step outside, and the air has cooled considerably from the last time I was outside. Was it yesterday, or the day before? I’m used to Texas weather flip-flopping often, but paired with the way the porch light flickers, it puts me on edge. Bridget either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care, and is making a beeline for her car.
“This entire day has been a disaster,” she mutters as the tailgate of the small SUV lifts. “I can’t believe I’m stuck here with you .”
“Keep saying things like that and I might develop a complex, Spitfire.” I edge past her as soon as I see the size of her suitcase. She’s already mad, so might as well add to it and be a gentleman.
“My name is Bridget ,” she seethes.
I haul her ridiculously large, pristine suitcase onto the driveway with a thud. “I know. Did you put this in here? It weighs a ton.”
“Yes,” she says, angling her chin in the air like she’s daring me to say something.
“What’s in here, bricks?”
She crosses her arms. So far, she’s displaying every red flag I can think of and it only makes me want to dig in deeper. “Essentials.”
“Are you moving in ? It’s a little fast for me?—”
“You’re ridiculous.” Bridget rolls her eyes and steps forward to pull the handle up from the case.
“Do you have insurance on this thing? It looks like it might be worth a lot.”
She huffs and as soon as she touches the handle, I lean and swivel it my way.
“Give me my suitcase, Weston.”
I like the way she says my name, so I wiggle my eyebrows at her playfully. “Answer one question first. It’s important.”
“Fine. What?”
“What did you name it? Nobody has luggage this fancy without giving it a name.”
She presses her lips into a hard line. “I think you’ve had one too many concussions.”
“Wait—can I guess? Pascal? Ray. Is it a boy? I guess it could be a girl?—”
“Are you serious? Do I look like a Disney Princess to you?”
I straighten, lifting a hand to my chin thoughtfully. “You’re missing a sidekick, but other than that… maybe?”
A smile plays around her lips briefly before she’s glaring at me again. “It’s Louie.”
I let out an exaggerated sigh. “That’s wholly unoriginal and honestly a little disappointing.”
“What do you mean?”
I gesture to the luggage. “It’s Louis Vuitton.”
She huffs. “I’m going to ignore the fact that you know a luxury brand item. What would you name it?”
I don’t even hesitate with my answer. “Maximus Decimus Meridius.”
This time she smiles, slow and brilliant like when the sun catches a prism. “Of course you would. Maybe you’re the unoriginal one.”
“He’s special,” I reply, tugging the suitcase a little closer to me. “If he travels with you, he’s bound to be a warrior.”
She extends her hand palm up in my direction. “Gimme.”
I ignore her and take a wide berth before heading back toward the house. “Hope you’re ready for an adventure, Maximus. We’re all stuck in a house together. Watch out for Bailey—he has a penchant for luggage.”
“I heard that! You better be joking!” Bridget shouts as she chases me.
Maybe being stuck in this house with her won’t be the worst thing. I’m pretty sure I found my new favorite hobby: getting under Bridget’s skin.