“You bet. Let’s go.”
He tosses the keys and catches them in the same hand as he straightens. It’s the kind of hot, unconscious move I’d have been sighing over, replaying in my mind a hundred times a day way back when I was hung up on him. Now I hardly notice the fluid, confident way he moves.
I couldn’t care less.
He waits for me to go ahead of him and then locks up the apartment behind us while I call the elevator. I’m starting to think about the hour ahead, wondering how quickly Bowie is going to regret the offer to bring me along.
Or maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll just turn up the XM radio the minute we get in the car and—
“Out pretty late last night.”
Huh? I turn to where he’s staring intently at the elevator.
Too intently.
My eyes narrow. “Yeah, guess so.”
I wait.
One second. Two. Three—
A wince. That muscle in his jaw starts to jump with a satisfying regularity.
Mr. Overprotective is battling it out with Mr. Detached inside that pretty head of his. He promised my brother he’d look out for me, but he doesn’t actually want to know anything about my life. Whatever.
The elevator arrives, and we ride down to the underground parking reserved for tenants. The low ceilings and greenish lighting feel claustrophobic to me, and I can’t imagine it doesn’t drive Bowie and my brother nuts since they’ve both got the better part of a foot on me, height-wise.
When we get to Bowie’s black Expedition, I wait for him to unlock the doors. It doesn’t happen. Looking across the hood, I find him watching me. Brows knit into the same stitch I’ve been admiring since he was sixteen.
Back then, those hard looks weren’t directed at me, but now?
I shift uncomfortably. “Locks?”
“Have fun?”
“What?”
Another jump of that jaw, and this time I’m almost positive I hear a low growl. Then— “Last night… Did you have fun?”
Okay. So apparently he isn’t letting it go. I shift, debating what to say. Bowie can’t find out where I’m working, but for a second, something lights up in me that he’s curious. That I can get under his skin.
Just as quickly, I shut it down.
He’s just doing his due diligence. And the fact that that’s all it is gets under my skin.
I paste on a dreamy expression as I peer up at the pockmarked concrete too close to my head and sigh. “Yeah, it was wild.”
He stares. Blinks. Swallows.
I bite my lip to keep it from curving after dropping that intentionally vague but easy-to-read-into hint about nothing.
The night was fun. The club was packed, the tips were generous, and my coworkers were pretty cool. All of which I’d be happy to share with anyone who was actually interested in my life and not just grudgingly keeping tabs on me for his best friend.
“So, you were out with a guy? Boyfriend?” It’s almost a wheeze.
I laugh, because the little demon who sometimes takes up residence on my shoulder when Bowie is around has gone full-on possession mode. “Ehh.”
His hand moves to the back of his neck, giving it a solid squeeze.
Muscles a little tense there, D-Man?
It takes everything I have not to react with a victorious fist pump, but then I’d be letting on to the petty, immature game I’m not exactly proud of playing. I’d be letting on that I care.
Better to pull out my phone and check the weather. “Locks?”
I can still feel him staring, and for a beat, I wonder if he’ll press. What I’ll say if he does. I don’t like to flat-out lie to anyone. Deliver a much-deserved hard time? Absolutely. But Bowie and Ben would lose their shit if they knew I was working at the club, and keeping this job is important to me.
This time, he unlocks the doors, and we climb in. I try not to think about how close the roof of the car is to the ceiling as he pulls out, or what it would be like if things with Bowie and me were the way they used to be.
When we emerge into the washed-out sunlight, I expect the questions to resume. I’m mentally compiling the most irritating, noncommittal responses I can come up with, tales of guys claiming to be movie producers who think I’ve got real talent, invites back to hotel rooms, and such. But Bowie doesn’t press, instead turning up the volume for the NHL channel.
We take the Drive out of downtown and pick up Sheridan to head north, skirting Lake Michigan most of the way until we hang a left in Winnetka.
The house we pull up to isn’t the one I grew up in. Ben bought this for our parents after his second contract came in. It’s a gorgeous two-story craftsman with low hedges between the road and the wide circle drive. We park out of the way of the garage as my mom throws the door open and runs down to greet us, that blond hair my brother and I inherited blowing around her smiling face as she flings her arms around Bowie with a hug he returns by lifting her off her feet.
It’s the sort of hug he gave me when he was in high school and he’d come back after spending summer vacation at home. I remember the belly-flipping, zero-gravity sensation and the smell of his soap when he squished me against his shoulder.
Nice while it lasted.
“Put my mother down, will you?” I say, hefting my bag over my shoulder.
I follow them toward the house, rolling my eyes when she pats his cheek and asks if he’s hungry.
My mom loves Bowie like another son, and not for the first time, I wonder if I could have loved him like a brother… if I’d still be getting those hugs instead of standing on the wrong side of a wall so high I gave up hope years ago of ever getting back on the other side.
I’m almost up the walk to the door when a sleek Mercedes pulls into the drive.
Paused at the top step, Mom looks from me to the car and back.
“Who’s this?” she asks as the driver-side door opens while the engine is still running.
I shrug, because who would I be expecting? But then a guy looking vaguely familiar steps out, flashing a wide grin… at me.
“Piper, right?”
I start to nod, still unable to place him, when Bowie steps in beside me. “You’re from the ER. Dr. Keats?”
Oooh, that’s right. The doctor who did Ben’s first surgery. Nice guy. I actually talked to him in the cafeteria for a few minutes that second day.
He nods and shakes Bowie’s hand and then my mother’s. “But Craig is fine.”
This feels a little weird, so I ask, “Are you here for a… house call?”
His smile slips, and then he laughs, shaking his head. “No. Not at all. I’m not Ben’s regular doctor. Honestly, this is going to sound crazy. But I was on the way to have dinner with my parents.” He gestures toward the road. “Nancy and Ron Keats. They live a few blocks over on Hubbard.”
His eyes flick back to me, stance widening. “Can’t believe I saw you when I was driving by. Honestly, I was hoping to get your number back at the hospital, but—”
“Emergencies,” my mom interjects a little breathlessly. And then she’s looping her arm through Bowie’s, half dragging him through the front door. “We’ll just head inside to check on Ben. Please come in if you have time. And if not… so nice to see you again.”
The door to the house closes, and I squint over at Craig. “I feel like they’re still watching. They are, aren’t they?”