Dirty Sexy Alphas (Twenty Book Box Set) - Hannah Ford Page 0,81

can’t control something, don’t you?”

“I’m used to getting what I want. And I want you. In town.”

“I’ll think about it.”

His eyes searched mine, as if there was more to the answer, more words hidden in their depths. But I was telling the truth—I didn’t know what I was going to do about the internship.

If I turned my back on it now, there wouldn’t be a third chance. And Professor Valdez wouldn’t vouch for me again.

He probably wouldn’t even let me back into the chemistry department.

“Can I ask you a question?” Landon asked.

“Sure.”

“Why chemistry? Little girls don’t grow up saying they want to be chemists. I remember you saying you wanted to be a teacher. When did you turn to chemistry?”

I picked up an errant paper coaster, peeling it open to avoid looking at him. “I’ve always been more logic based. I liked math over English. Chemistry over poetry. When my mom got sick, everything was so confusing and out of my control, you know? The world didn’t make sense any more. So I focused on anything I could control.”

“I wish I’d been there for you when she passed.”

I stilled. He’d finally spoken the words I’d hoped to hear ever since he’d disappeared. Landon had a way of holding things together. Of being the steady rock when the ocean churned around us. I’d needed him—Matt had needed him—and I’d held out hope he’d reappear and hold us all together.

But he hadn’t. He’d left us to work it all out on our own.

“Why didn’t you come back? Even if it was just for her funeral. It would’ve meant something. Maybe then you could’ve at least kept an eye on Matt.”

“It wouldn’t have helped. It would’ve hindered. I wasn’t in a good place before Matt told me, and hearing the news only made it worse. Your mom… you’re not the only one who misses her.”

It was strange, how until that moment, it hadn’t occurred to me that he lost her too. “I’m sorry. I can’t believe—“

“You don’t owe me an apology. When your grief swallows you whole, it’s hard to look up, you know? And as much as I missed her, she was your mom. My grief paled compared to yours.”

I nodded, pursing my lips. It only made me feel a little better.

“My mom wanted to be there for me,” he continued, “but it was your mom who actually was. Mine wanted to protect me. But in the end, she just didn’t have the strength to stand up to him and do what was right. Your mom stepped in at a time I needed her.”

“She was like that. I miss her so much.”

“She bought me underwear,” he said abruptly, cocking an eyebrow at me.

“What?” I barked a laugh.

“Yeah. Underwear, socks, plain white T-shirts, my own toothbrush. Even deodorant and razors. She put this whole whicker basket thing together so that any time I stayed over, I’d have everything I needed.”

It sounded so like my mom; I could already picture it. She probably wrote his name on everything. “How did I not ever know about this special basket?”

“It was in your brother’s closet. Top shelf, back in the corner. Matt never even asked me how it arrived. Hell, maybe it was his idea.”

I shook my head. “My brother would take a punch for you, but he’s not going to shop for socks and underwear.”

He laughed. “True. A part of me thought maybe you had something to do with it.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. It didn’t even make sense. But we’d started having all these… moments. I thought maybe you cared for me.”

I raised a brow.

“Like that night with the pickles.”

“The pick--” I stopped abruptly, a memory hitting me, my face heating up. “Oh my god, I remember that!”

I’d woken up at midnight, tossed and turned for the better part of an hour, and then gotten out of bed for a glass of water.

I’d found Landon in our kitchen, bathed in the yellow light of the fridge.

He’d glanced up to find me staring at him, but he hadn’t reacted. Like it was the most natural thing in the world to encounter him at midnight in my kitchen, looking for a snack.

And then he held out the still-open pickle jar, and said, “Fancy a pickle?”

In a faux British accent, though god knows why.

I’d laughed and shook my head, walking past him to grab a glass from the cupboard.

He’d said, “What, got something against pickles?”

I’d taken a swig of water, and then replied, “I just don’t like the mushy