SECRETS THAT WE KEEP

1. Bella-2

“Last time…” Scowling, I shook my head. “But it’s probably been a year since you were last here.”

“I know.” Unwrapping his treat, he wiggled his eyebrows mischievously. “Shows how much I know you don’t eat your vegetables.”

I mean-mugged him and mumbled, “It’s probably freezer burned by now.” At least, I hoped it was. That was what he should get for hiding one of my favorite treats from me so he could hog it to himself.

But as soon as he stuck one end in his mouth, he closed his eyes and moaned in delight. “Mmm. Nope, no freezer burn. It’s absolutely perfect. Mm-hmm.”

“You’re such a turd,” I groused.

“Really? Am I? Then I guess that means I should do this next.” He proceeded to slowly slide his tongue up the popsicle and back down again to rub his victory in my face. I would’ve called him another nasty name, except I got distracted, focusing a little too intently on the path of his tongue.

When my drunk brain went there, wondering what else he could do with a tongue like that, a flutter of awareness tickled me in the most startling places.

I jumped, not expecting that kind of reaction, especially since it’d been caused by him of all people.

Oblivious to my embarrassing response, he smirked and continued to suck on my push pop as he grabbed a chair across the table from me with his free hand, spun it around, and sat on it backwards so he could rest his forearms on the backrest as he ate.

Settling deep brown eyes on me, he sighed. “Alright now, spill it. What was your distress call about?”

I lifted my chin loftily. “I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on.” Lifting his voice to a ridiculous falsetto, which in no way resembled my actual voice, he mimicked, “Can you come over? Like, right now. I really need you tonight.”

“That is so not how I said it,” I ground out. “And besides, that call wasn’t meant for you.”

“Yes, I was always fully aware of that. But…” He shrugged. “Here I am. So you might as well talk.”

He licked the push pop again. My gaze followed the slow, languid path of his tongue, unable to look away until he popped the whole thing back into his mouth and broke the spell he had me under.

Dude, what was wrong with me tonight?

Mentally slapping myself away from lusty thoughts, I blinked my expression into a scowl. “If you knew I’d called the wrong person all along, then why the hell did you come over?”

He shrugged again. “Don’t know. Bored, I guess. And antsy. Anyway…” His brown eyes probed mine. “Why can’t I help you just as well as anyone else? We’re family; that’s what we do.”

I snorted. “Buddy, you and I are in no way related.”

“You know what I mean.” His voice was dry and unimpressed. “We’re part of the group. The inner circle. Our parents are closer than blood. Face it. We’s family, baby.”

He was right, so I just rolled my eyes and remained stubbornly mute.

Finishing the push pop with a satisfied sigh, he chucked the empty container remains across the room toward my open trash can. When he made the shot perfectly, he turned back to me, grinning proudly.

Until my glare caused him to falter.

“Come on, Bells,” he encouraged. “You can talk to me. I’m a professional, remember? It’s my job to help people.”

I snorted over his stretch of the term professional. But when he just kept gazing at me with that steady, unrelenting stare, I squirmed in my seat.

“I’m bloating and have horrible cramps,” I muttered, hoping that would scare him off-topic. “In fact, I might just be experiencing the worst period in the history of all periods. And stop calling me Bells. That’s a—it’s a stupid nickname.”

Except I kind of liked it.

Almost as much as I liked the way he said it.

It brought out the butterflies in my belly.

What was worse, the bastard only winked at my whiny demand. He just had to look super-hot when winking, too.

“Nice try,” he said, his voice all husky and deep and male. “But I have a sister. Lady problems don’t rattle me. And anyway, you have to admit; Bells is a hell of a lot better than what I used to call you.”

I furrowed my eyebrows, unable to remember what he used to call me, so he rolled his hand. “Isabella,” he sang softly. “Has a bad smell-a. Got diarrhea and pooped Nutella.”

“Seriously!” I gasped. “You’re the evil cretin who came up with that awful chant?”

When I grabbed an orange that was sitting in a basket on the table between us and chucked it at him, he laughed and dodged, deflecting the fruit off his muscled forearm.

“What?” he asked with fake innocence. “You were a mature twelve to my ten. I had to level the playing field between us somehow.”

“I was thirteen when you were ten,” I argued because I needed something to argue.

“Twelve and a half,” he allowed.

I shook my head. “You were such a little shit.”

He nodded in satisfaction as if proud of the label. “Yeah, I totally was. Good times.”

“And you haven’t improved all that much, either,” I goaded, “hiding my damn push pops from me. That’s unacceptable, you know.”

“Then, how about this?” He batted his lashes playfully. “I’ll buy you a whole new box of push pops if you tell me what’s wrong.”

I pulled back in surprise, realizing he honestly wanted to know what was bothering me. Gracen wouldn’t have pried like this. He’d either already know, or he’d be patient and chill and wait for me to tell him when I was ready.

I wasn’t sure how to handle being pressed to open up. It made my chest feel hot and achy. Swallowing hard, I grew tempted but also extremely unsure.

“Well, that’s the problem,” I finally admitted as I picked up another orange so I could toss it between my hands and combat the sudden anxiety rumbling through my stomach. “Nothing’s actually wrong. I’m not even on my period. I was just feeling—I don’t know—grumpy and lonely and depressed, I guess, and reliving bad decisions.” In men. I glanced across the table at him. “Gracen would’ve understood.”

“Okay,” he said, slapping his hands together and rubbing them in preparation. “I can work with this. What would Gracen be doing for you right now? We’ll see how I compare.”

I wrinkled my brow. “You really want to help me? Like he would?”

Lifting one shoulder, he said, “Sure. Why not? Like I said, I was bored and antsy myself. I need something to distract me.”

Noticing that he did indeed seem a bit off, I sat up straighter. He was always scruffy, but his clothes seemed more wrinkled, facial hair thicker, and the lines under his eyes were deeper than I’d ever noticed them being before. Had he not been sleeping well?

Suddenly worried and ready to kick the ass of anyone who’d distressed him, I demanded, “What the hell? What’s gotten you into a funk?”

“Ah, nothing.” He waved a hand and mumbled out a dismissive sound as he slid his gaze toward the ceiling as if trying to downplay his problems. “Angie just keeps calling, is all, asking me to come over.”

“Angie?” I made a face. “I thought you broke up with her months ago.”

“I did.” He sighed and scrubbed his face. “She’s mean and unstable and, honestly, I can’t stand her. I just want it all to be done. But then she’ll call sometimes, sounding all grumpy and lonely and depressed—” He raised his eyebrows my way as he repeated my own words. “And—I don’t know—I start feeling guilty.”

When his phone began to ring from his pocket, I scowled. “That her?”

He shrugged, looking miserable. “Probably.”

I lifted my hand. “Give it here.”

He sent me an untrusting glance. So I shook my fingers insistently. “Come on. I’m not getting any younger. Give me your phone.”

With a sigh, he handed it over. “Don’t be too mean. She’s hurting.”

“Oh, I’m not talking to her,” I reassured him. I’d never been able to stand Angie, and hearing that she was still messing with his head made me even less of a fan. There was no way I would be able to say anything productive to her right now.

So I turned the phone off completely. There. Now, neither of us had to listen to the ringing.

His shoulders immediately deflated in relief. That made me feel marginally better. I’d helped him. Which filled me with the urge to help him even more.

Setting the phone on the table, I watched him with pity. “You really must’ve been desperate if I was the lesser of two evils.”

“Hey, don’t say that,” he rumbled, picking at a knot of wood on the back of the chair he sat on. “You’re not so bad. I’d partner with you over Gracen at beer pong any day of the week. And trust me, that’s a big deal. I take my beer pong seriously.”

Except there was no drunken game to play tonight, so I shrugged. “I guess.” Then I sent him a forced smile. “At least I can keep you from going to your ex’s and doing something you’ll regret.”

He made a face. “I wasn’t going to go.”

“Mm-hmm.” I lifted my eyebrows. “That why you look so tempted?”

He shot me an indignant frown. “I wasn’t.”

I lifted my hands. “Okay, fine.” Blowing out a breath, I glanced around the kitchen and plopped my palms onto the table as I turned back to my reluctant guest. “What a pair we make, huh?”

He shrugged morosely and picked at the knot with more intensity, as if he were really trying to pry a shard of wood free.

Suddenly deciding he could stay, I said, “Gracen would’ve made me popcorn and hot chocolate.”

“Really?” Immediately popping to his feet, he announced, “I can do that.”

“And then he would’ve cuddled on the couch with me so we could watch Gilmore Girls together for the rest of the night.”

That caused him to pause. “Gilmore Girls?” he asked slowly. When I nodded, he groaned. “You gotta be kidding me. No. There’s no way. I refuse.”

I batted my lashes. “Gracen wouldn’t have refused.”

He snorted. “Gray can’t possibly like Gilmore Girls. All they do is talk. Constantly. Blah, blah, blah, the whole time. It’s enough to give me a headache.”

“He crushes on Rory,” I argued. “Big-time.”

“Damn. I should’ve known. Your brother’s always been a sucker for the pretty, innocent faces.” Another groan later, he rolled his head on his shoulders as if trying to force himself into Gilmore Girl mode. But it must not have taken because he suddenly asked, “What about Supernatural reruns? Or, hey, I know you like Stranger Things. Huh?” He lifted his eyebrows suggestively to make the alternatives sound more appealing than Gilmore Girls.

Except I was in a solid GG mood.

“Never mind,” I muttered, tossing down my orange and jerking to my feet. “You don’t get it, so I’ll just take care of myself. You probably suck at cuddling, anyway.”

And I left the kitchen.

“Hey now.” Darting after me, he tripped his way into the hall to catch up. Then he nearly tackled me in his haste to grasp my elbow, jerk me around, and heave me into his arms. “I’ve been told I have superb cuddling skills. See.”

“By who?” I asked, my voice muffled against his rock-hard chest as he attempted to suffocate me with the force of his arm muscles alone. “Your crazy, psycho ex? Cut it out.” I shoved at his elbow. “I can’t breathe. This is the worst hug ever.”