Page 31 of Fever Dream
“Motherfucker.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
“I fucking hate this shit.”
“Fuck my life.”
I watch Julia Silva, who I had pegged as sweet and proper and a carbon copy of her smiley-face emoji of a brother, employ almost every offensive combination offuckunder the sun as she uses tweezers to remove the prickles from her palms and forearms.
One at a time. Because she still refuses to let me help her.
She’s all huffy and pissy. And honestly? It’s kind of adorable. Adorable enough that a chuckle slips from my lips when she says, “Fucking fuck!”
Her head whips around from where she stands at the kitchen sink, and her dark eyes narrow in my direction. I’ve propped myself against the counter, a safe distance away from her. Giving her space like you might an injured wild animal.
“Something funny, Bush?” she asks with a tinge of venom in her voice. “I thought you’d left.”
I shrug and make a show of giving her a slow once-over, as if I’m assessing her.
I know I shouldn’t. I know I’m playing with fire. Flirting with Theo Silva’s little sister is like charging at a big red flag. But as it turns out, red’s my favorite color.
“Decided to come back. Didn’t know you were old enough to talk like that,” I say, hitting her with a wink, which only gets mean eye roll and an exasperated sigh. It seems to be a common transaction for the two of us.
“And it’sBrandt, not Bush,” I add, before I can think better of correcting her.
That sentence brings her up short. She carefully places the tweezers on the counter before lifting one brow in my direction. “What do you mean it’s Brandt and not Bush?"
I freeze for a beat, kicking myself for sharing that with her. It tumbled out with such ease. The messiness of my life seeps through the cracks a little too readily when I’m around her.
“Getting kind of personal, don’t you think?” I quip, crossing my arms, hoping to steer us into safer territory. Julia is all bright and shiny, her family is all wholesome and happy. I don’t want to pop the lid on something that will only make me feel lesser than in her presence.
She doesn’t respond right away. Instead, she busies herself by reaching for a paper towel, wetting it, and wiping her skin clean. Then she inspects her hands with a dry chuckle. “You’ve washed vomit out of my sarong, so I think we might be past the point of worrying about what’s personal.”
I pop my tongue into my cheek to cover a laugh, because, fuck, if she hasn’t got a point. A dark one. But a point nonetheless.
One that has me realizing Julia may not be judging me the way that I assume she is.
CHAPTER 12
Julia
ISTEP BACK FROMhim, knowing I need to create some space, but a sharp sting brings me up short.
I wince and let out a pained hiss when the fucking thorns speared into my ass cheek twist and snag against the loose fabric of my shorts. They’ve been needling me since I walked down that mountain, every step a reminder that I had no idea how I was going to get them out.
Hell, I even leaned up against a tree and tried to twist around far enough, but to no avail. My plan has certainly not been to tell a single person. Least of all Emmett Bush. But concern overtakeshis features. It seems I underestimated how observant the man is.
“Are you lying about being injured?”
“No,” I reply quickly, my cheeks heating as I shake my head with too much enthusiasm to be normal.
“Julia. What’s wrong?”
He steps closer, and I grip the edge of the counter as my butt bumps against the edge, forcing me to swallow a pained moan. It comes out as more of a pathetic whimper. Apparently, a noise that makes chivalrous men want to help you, because Emmett’s body language has morphed from coy and teasing to alarmed.
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit. I thought you got all the spines out of your hands.”
