Second Dive (Kings of the Water #3) - Jasmin Miller Page 0,23

I don’t even blame him. What on earth is my mom doing?

Apparently, she’s prepared for him to decline this invitation as well. “I insist . . . for old time’s sake.”

Guilt card, here we go. I think I might need to have a stern talk about this with her later.

Noah’s Adam’s apple bobs with a thick swallow as he closes his eyes. “Okay.”

“Great. That’s great.” My mom seems to be the only one who thinks this is anything but a disaster, and also the only one who’s oblivious to the tension radiating off Noah. Or she's a better actress than I thought.

He clears his throat. “Well, I better get going. Have a good night.”

With that, he turns around, leaving me to enjoy the view. And by view, I mean that tight, round ass in his low-hung sweatpants.

“Well, well . . .” My mom’s hand lands on my shoulder as she spins me around and we walk into the house. “Looks like there’s a lot you have to tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell, Mom.”

“That didn’t look like nothing to me.”

We make our way through the hallway—where I stop to look at our family photos, sending my dad a smile, as always—and into the kitchen. The two mugs on the kitchen bar are steaming, the herbal tea tags hanging over the edges.

After slinging my purse and the bag on the bar, I plop onto the barstool, and drop my head on my folded arms. Seems to be my new thing, especially after seeing Noah in any capacity, or when recounting anything involving Noah.

What a mess. This wasn’t supposed to be like this. None of it.

This was supposed to be a new start. Bringing me comfort to be united with my friends and family. Instead, it has unleashed chaos.

I listen to my mom’s movements around the kitchen, the clinking of the mugs on the counter, the opening and closing of the trash can drawer.

She’s always been the patient one out of my parents, which sometimes drove my dad and me insane. Do I want to talk to her about Noah? We’re close, even closer since my dad passed away, but talking about boys . . . about men has never been our thing.

And what’s there even to tell? Nothing on the outside since we aren’t anything. But there’s so much going on inside my head. Things I don’t want to say out loud, let alone think about. Not that my mind or heart care about any of it.

“Noah was assigned to me for the volunteer work at the hospital.” I accept the mug she holds out to me, knowing she’s already added the honey. “Thank you.”

“Oh wow. That’s unexpected.” She grabs her mug and we move to the dining room table.

I’m not sure why she even needs one since she’s living by herself, but in my eyes, she’s got free rein on whatever the heck she wants to do. Between me and my dad, she’s had a lot to deal with in the last decade, and I just want her to find a slice of happiness. If a giant dining room table makes her happy, so be it.

I catch her up on the hospital work and my broken-down car. There really isn’t much else to tell.

After spreading out her puzzle mat, we spend the next hour hunched together over her latest obsession, a three-thousand-piece edition of Flowering Paris.

It will look gorgeous and has me completely engrossed.

My thoughts don’t sneak off to Noah at all.

Not one bit.

Ten

Noah

Is twenty-nine too old for a round of ding-dong ditch?

Or maybe a mental assessment would be more appropriate because, at this point, I’m seriously doubting my mental capabilities.

I clearly seem to be incapable of making wise decisions when it comes to anything Chloe-involved, and shouldn’t be around her at all.

The last few days alone are proof enough.

First, the hospital project. Maybe I could have gotten out of that one. I probably should have tried the second I saw her, but I was too dumbfounded.

Then, not only driving her home, but also to her mom’s? Definitely reckless. Maybe even stupid. Clearly, I was asking fate to smack me upside the head.

Which brings me to my third point. A lunch invitation from Chloe’s mom. How on earth could I have said no to her? She’s always been incredibly kind and supportive toward me.

I shake my head at my own . . . I'm not even sure what to call it. Idiocy? Weakness? Either way, I turn around. I have to