Blind Spot - Katana Collins Page 0,45

pattern. “I’m leaving you some breakfast. You should eat something.”

I waited there another second before tapping a finger to the door and pushing off back toward the elevators.

…

By three o’clock, I had sent her three texts and only gotten one curt response back. I’m fine. Fine? She made it quite clear the night before—shit, had even specifically stated—that she was anything but fine. Did she really think I’d let that pass?

I walked Buddy about six times, hoping to catch a glimpse of her somewhere. Anywhere. With no luck. The television droned the Saturday afternoon news in the background, and I half-heartedly watched, sipping my iced coffee. Buddy lay beside me, belly up, and I scratched his long, reddish fur.

My dad’s face flashed on the TV, and I groaned aloud. Awful B-roll footage of him and my mom playing Putt-Putt rolled, along with an image of them glad-handing. Finally, there I was. I cringed at the video of the three of us carrying boxes from my car into the dorms. That freaking video had been filmed years ago—my freshman year. Heat rushed through me, and I winced as my grip on the remote tweaked my cut hand. His infamous tag line scrolled across the screen above a family photo of all of us. Make it Better with Michaelson! A knot tightened in my chest, along with that same rush of irrational anger I always got when I saw those damned commercials.

My phone pinged with a text, drawing me out of my rage fest, and I nearly jumped off the couch to grab it, shuffling the laptop beside me on the couch. Brad’s profile pic flashed me the middle finger, and beside his avatar was his text: b-ball?

I sighed, dragging a hand down my face. Why the hell not? Clearly, I had no other prospects until tonight’s weekly poker night—and even that was only if there were no good parties happening. I shut the TV off and texted a quick response before I hopped up to put my gear on.

I froze when I got to the lobby. The back of a blond ponytail swung near the mailboxes; her head was down, flipping through a couple of envelopes. “Shelby?” My voice was raw, hoarse with disbelief. Maybe that old adage was true. What was it? When you stop looking, that’s when something pops up?

Her shoulders stiffened just before she spun to look at me over one shoulder. “Tate,” she whispered, and her eyes widened.

Basketball was suddenly the furthest thing from my mind, and I rushed over to her. She fell back against the mailboxes, her eyes wide, fearful. She’s afraid? Of what? Me?

I pulled back and instead leaned against the front desk, a few feet away from her. “I’ve been worried about you,” I offered quietly, and a sudden rush of embarrassment burned in my cheeks. The last time I admitted that to a girl, she took the chance to scoop up the governor’s son’s heart and run with it.

Her eyes morphed into something steadfast and seemingly strong, though a feeling in my gut told me otherwise. “Well, you can see for yourself. I’m fine.”

“There’s that word again,” I chuckled, a bitter crack snapping the back of my throat.

Her face softened, and she lowered the mail to her side. “This time, it’s true. Look at me.” She held her hands out. “See? Fine.”

“And last night?” I lowered my voice. “Were you fine then?”

She swallowed hard and shook her head, casting her eyes to the floor. “No. I wasn’t fine last night. And we should talk—but not now. And not here.”

I closed the distance between us, placing a hand on her hip. “So, what happened?” I moved my thumb in slow circles, and her eyes squeezed shut.

“I just really don’t like it when guys pull my hair,” she whispered.

It was a lie. Or at the very best, a partial truth. I hadn’t pulled her hair. Brushed it out of the way, yeah. Smoothed my fingers into it. But at least I had her talking. I’d take what I could get at this point. It wasn’t a Katie kind of lie. She wasn’t lying to get her way, or get what she wanted. It was self-preservation.

“Okay…I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

She looked down to the side as though the patterns in the marble were something fascinating.

“Hey,” I repeated, crouching lower to meet her gaze. Those golden-brown eyes connected with mine, and I wanted to thank God for the moment he gave us just then. Because, for