Eric is still behind me, looking over my shoulder—nosy bastard—and I turn to see him checking Sugar out. He’s cramming Cap’n Crunch in his mouth at the same time, and the effect is pretty much an overgrown child. I smack him on the arm when we walk past him.
“Ow! What the hell did I do?” he says.
I lead Sugar into the kitchen area.
She eases into the room carefully, taking in my place as if she’s unsure about coming inside. Everything about her screams uncertainty and unease, and absurdly I want to make her feel at home.
She runs her gaze over the space, a small craftsman style house, older but with a semi-fresh coat of pale beige paint on the walls, crown molding in the den, and nice, tall baseboards throughout. Our furnishings are newish and from IKEA, everything clean, modern, and functional. My dad bought all of it for me when I signed my scholarship for Hawthorne, and I think part of him just wanted to make me happy, to fill that black hole of grief I had. After graduation, Reece and Eric will stay here, and after that, my dad will probably sell it for a profit.
“Nice house.” She turns to face me.
“Thanks.” I stick my hands in my pockets. “So if there’s no head in the box, what did you bring?”
Eric starts singing the Justin Timberlake and Andy Samberg song “Dick in a Box”, and I shake my head at him. “Show some restraint.”
He pouts. “But if you ask what’s in the box, that’s where my head goes.”
A slow bloom of color starts at her neck and makes its way up her neck to her cheeks. I watch the pulse that beats erratically at her throat, and my shoulders rise as I inhale her scent, light with a hint of vanilla. “Ignore Eric. He gets excited when anyone comes to see us, even the guy who delivers the mail. He always goes out there and talks his damn head off.”
She gives us a sheepish look. “The box has pie in it.”
“You made me a pie?” I blink.
“Yeah. Stupid idea?”
I shake my head. “Hell, no. I like to eat.”
She bites her lip.
“Score!” Eric says. “What kind? Is it chocolate? I love chocolate. Man, that shit is the bomb.”
She laughs. “I’ll remember that and make you one next time.”
“Cool.” He gives her a fist bump.
“Don’t you have an episode of The Bachelor to watch?” I say to him.
He shrugs, gets a good look at my face, and laughs. “I guess so, but I want a piece of that.” His gaze lingers on Sugar and the box before he wanders back into the den and cranks up the TV. Good. Dude is my best friend, but he’s also a horn dog.
I turn back to Sugar. “Thank you for the gift.”
“If I can set this somewhere…”
“Of course, sure.” I’m feeling discombobulated, stiff, and a bit off, and I edge in front of her to clear off the table. My shoulder brushes hers, and I think I hear her breath hitch.
“Sorry,” I say as I grab my books and plop them in one of the wooden chairs.
“Great, thank you,” she murmurs as she leans over and sets the box down, giving me the perfect view of her heart-shaped ass. She’s willowy and curvy in all the right places, and I tug at my collar.
Last night, that ass was in my hands…
She turns to face me, and I blink at the twinkle of a piercing in her belly button, the blue jewel causing my eyes to linger on the creamy strip of skin between her sweater and jeans. Damn. How did I miss that? There’s also a half-moon birthmark the size of a quarter to the right on her waist and my pulse jerks, fantasizing about putting my mouth there, sucking the taste of her between my lips.
“Before you look at it, just know I did the best I could.” She grimaces, pressing her lips together, that blush rising on her cheeks again. Almost shyly, she turns and opens the box, and hell, at this point I don’t even care what’s in it. A head? A dick? Bring it.
“It’s cherry pie.” She says the words with bravado. “I read your HU bio and it said it’s your favorite.”
I blanch.
She pauses, giving me a searching look. “It is your favorite, right? I spent the whole afternoon on this thing.”
I recall the bio she’s referring to and the PR girl who did them