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“Look, you want your man to bone you, but you’re too innocent to tell him you want him to bone you. What I get you, no words will be needed.” A car door slams. “This is me helping sans the trusty Google.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“Cup size, girl.” I hear bells jingle.

“Andy!” I hiss.

I hear someone ask if she needs any help, to which Andy replies, “I need something strappy. With lace.”

27

I’D DO IT AGAIN

JULY 2010 – 21 YEARS OLD

Andy gave me the two-finger salute as she was pulling out of the parking lot of our apartment complex, while I was pulling in.

The sweet scent of baking hits me the moment I open the front door. I inhale deeply, releasing a pleasured sigh as I catch sight of Faye rushing from the direction of our bedroom.

She stops abruptly, her eyes popping wide as she chirps nervously, “Oh, hey.”

A slow grin tugs at my mouth as I study her. She’s up to something. “Hey.”

She squeaks, “You’re home early.”

“I am.” I nod, fighting the widening of my grin. “Is that a problem?”

“No!” She shakes her head. “Why would it be a problem?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer as she moves to close the space between us, sliding her arms around my neck and rising onto her tiptoes to press a kiss to the underside of my jaw. She murmurs breathily, “Happy Birthday, Tate.”

“Thanks.”

“I wanted to make you a birthday breakfast today.” She pulls back to narrow her eyes on me. “But when I woke, you were gone and the alarm I set was strangely turned off.”

“Sounds like a mystery.”

“That’s what I thought.” With her arms still looped around my neck, she smiles up at me with a pretty smile that could knock me on my ass just as easily now as it did the first time I saw it.

I loop my arms around her, tugging her front into mine in a way that has hunger heating my blood. It’s nothing new, this hunger. I've been living on the edge of hunger for months.

“I saw Andy when I was leaving.”

“Oh.” She averts her eyes as she wiggles out of my arms. Ducking her face, she slips into the kitchen.

Yeah, she’s hiding something.

I kick out of my boots, doing the dryer-sheet-ritual that keeps the peace.

I watch her fuss in the kitchen, putting dishes from the drying rack into the cupboard. I don't miss the way pink spills into her cheeks, even though she's clearly trying to hide it behind the spill her of hair.

Folding my arms over my chest, I fight a grin as I lean into the wall. “Everything okay?”

She blinks at me like a deer caught in the headlights. “Of course!” She looks away quickly. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I don't know,” I drawl. “You look a little suspicious.”

“No. No—I-I’m not,” she stutters.

She's lying, but I let her have it. I'll get it out of her later, I decide, kicking off the wall to poke my head into the living room, expecting to see Owen on his play mat, which is where he usually is this time of day.