Page 22 of Changing Lanes

Dean. I should probably send him a text to thank him for taking me home but I’m dragging my sore feet. Beckett’s nosey guess about him wasn’t far off—Dean did take that kiss much more seriously than I did. Than I ever would. Kissing is like flirting—harmless fun that doesn’t necessarily mean there’s more to follow, despite what some men try to convince themselves.

But I do need my bike back and even though I have more men at my fingertips than most people, they all feel so goddamn out of reach still. The chair I ordered for Mom came in. Tysen has a truck. Maybe I’ll try him. See if he actually answers this time. He may have helped me move but he hasn’t responded to any of my texts since.

A door down the hall opens and I hold my breath, hearing a loud groan and then another door close with a click. The bathroom. The one I share with Beckett. I could’ve sworn I heard muttered voices—or maybe just one—coming from his room earlier.

I strain my ears, trying to make out any noises from…I don’t know, like a guest or something, then cover my face with my hands before realizing my head is a no-go zone and drop them.

Pancakes. Those will help. Nothing like sugar-soaked carbs to drown out The Headache.

Beckett, freshly showered, appears as I’m setting out the last batch, avoiding me entirely as he goes straight for the coffee I brewed. I don’t drink the stuff but Jesse and my mom always did so I can make a pot with my eyes closed.

He’s wearing a blinding pink shirt that’s just tight enough to hug some of his more prominent muscles. With the words You’d be loud, too, if I was riding you stretched across the chest, my mind wanders back to the noises I heard coming from behind his closed door. Is that what he thinks is loud? A few morning murmurs…huh. Okay.

Should be interesting when I finally do bring someone home. Then maybe I’ll get myself a cheesy shirt, too, one that says A better ride than your bike. And he’ll damn well know it from how loud I am.

Surreptitiously sneaking a glance down the hall, I say, “bad night?” hoping he was somehow drunker than I was. When I don’t see anyone follow him, I prop my hip against the counter, facing him fully.

His eyes finally meet mine and I’m right back to last night being held in his impressive arms, the feeling of being wrapped up safe and secure piercing me like a stray bullet on a battlefield.

I press the heel of my palm into my chest, rubbing small, hard circles.

His sleep-drunk voice only rasps out, “I’ve had worse.”

He’s still holding my gaze but not in a hostile way like I expected. Maybe I’m making a bigger deal out of this. Last night obviously meant as much to him as it did to me—nothing.

“Sorry about last night.” I drop my eyes to gather some condiments from the fridge. “I had a little too much to drink and I’m sorry it involved you at all. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“What would’ve happened if you didn’t?”

I turn to find him still locked on me like a predator to its prey—unblinking, unmoving, un-fucking-believably sexy—and scowl, which honestly hurts horribly.

“What do you mean?”

“What would’ve happened if I didn’t wake up? Would you have invited Dean to come in? Dude was practically drooling after the bone he thought he was promised.” His eyebrow cocks like maybe I won’t understand the innuendo. Oh, I get it. How funny he thinks he must be.

I attempt to wave the thought away like smoke from a tire burnout.

“Dean knows where things stand.” Mostly.

“But would you have invited him inside?”

I scan his face as he does mine, both looking for what’s not being said. Searching for answers to questions neither of us is willing to come out and ask.

I flick another glance toward our bedrooms, saying, “No.”

“Why?”

His question is quick like a cat on a mouse and I wonder if he’s playing with me in the same way. Batting me around for his own amusement.

He’ll have to get his kicks somewhere else though. The laugh that leaves my mouth next is humorless and pointed.

“Look, sorry again for disturbing you. I realize you had a date over.” Another glimpse at the empty hall. “And I probably interrupted-”

“You didn’t.”

The look he gives me is full of arrogance, daring me to push the matter. See where it leads.

But I won’t. I shouldn’t care where it might take me even if a part of me—an itty, bitty part of me—is mentally already down the hall, throwing his door wide open just to see for myself.