and turns back to the kitchen. “I’ve got another four boxes in here. Have fun, boys.”
I shake my head and look at Scott. “You really need to control that girl.”
“Fuck you, dude,” he snaps. “Get that box out of my way.”
I move the box of clothes. Scott is pissy, which is making the whole process of moving even more hellish than normal.
But he’s directing all that anger at Lindsay. It would bother me more, except I know what she’s doing. I’ve been watching her single-handedly manipulate my boy for half a year, and if there is anything I’m sure of, it’s that Lindsay Illian knows exactly what she’s doing when she pushes Scott around.
Giving him something to be pissy about keeps him focused on her and not on the terrifying elephant in the room.
We’re moving in together.
It was her idea, although I know Peyton had a hand in it. And it makes sense. The new school year is starting, and they spend more time at our place than anywhere else. I knew all the reasons why it was a good idea, all the reasons on paper. Saving time and money, and practicality.
It was still terrifying, and part of me wanted to bolt. As much as I adored Peyton, as sure of her as I was, I had never lived with a woman. I'd lived in group homes, and by myself, and with Scott. I had never wanted to live with anyone else.
"Where does this go?" Scott asks, holding a big box with Peyton's handwriting on the side.
"Our room," she says bouncing on her toes. She cuts her eyes at me. "I got new sheets for our bed."
And that. That right there settles me. Because no matter what else there is, I'm doing this with her. A girl who I've got no fucking doubts about. And the idea of her in my bed, in my space, all the time—it's more intoxicating than it is infuriating.
I slap a screwdriver against Scott's chest and grin. "Come on. We need to get the table put together before that couch arrives."
He looks vaguely sick, but he follows me.
***
My whole body hurts when we finally quit for the day. It took two days and enough coffee to give me an ulcer, but we're done. Everything is out of our old place, and aside from the couple boxes of random shit no one knows what to do with, the new place is set up. Linds even cooked a first meal for us.
And Peyton has kept me out of our room as she worked on it for most of the evening, shouting for Lindsay and even Scott when she needed help and shoving me away every time I tried to sneak a peek. She's almost vibrating with excitement now as she shifts from foot to foot in front of the closed door, her wide blue eyes searching mine and nervous.
"Babe, you don't need to be nervous," I say, pulling her into me. "All I need is you and a warm bed."
She shakes her head, her brow furrowed. It's this adorable look she does when she's going to argue with me, or when she thinks she's right and I need to learn something.
"You deserve more,” she says stubbornly.
My stomach drops, an unpleasant pitch that sends the three beers I've had sloshing in a dramatic, not good kind of way. I reach past her and push open the door, my eyes locked on hers.
Pull her tight to me and lift her, just a little. Without hesitating, she wraps her legs around me, letting me carry her.
It feels right, somehow.
This girl has always felt right, in a way that is hard for me to define or quantify.
The room is lit by a few candles and a lamp by the bed—a queen-sized bed covered in a dark spread and fluffy pillows. My sketch pad and pens are sitting on the side table, waiting like I left them there earlier in the day. Books are scattered on her dresser with a small, carved box and a few mysterious, girly-looking bottles. An oversized desk is pushed against the wall overlooking the window, and her computer sits on one side, my work shit and notebooks on the other.
There are small ropes wrapped around the bedposts that make me grin, and our shoes and clothes are lining the walk-in closet.
The walls, though. They snag and hold my attention.
It's something that took me almost four months to figure out. Even now, Peyton is quiet and almost secretive.