All Broke Down (Rusk University #2)(25)
Author: Cora Carmack

“Dylan.”

My eyes fly to his, and I expect an eyebrow, perhaps a cocky grin, maybe some dirty, dirty words.

But he looks tired.

“You’re not okay,” I say because I just know. This is not the same guy I met a few nights ago.

He takes a deep breath. “What do you need? Did you leave something?”

“Uh, no.” I lift up the envelope in my right hand. “I’m just here to pay you back. And to say thank you again. So, um, thank you.”

I hold out the envelope, and he stares at it for several long seconds, then his eyes raise up to mine.

“You want to come in?”

I hesitate. Because I want to. In the same way that I wanted his hands on me Friday night. The same way I wanted his mouth . . . the things it did and the things it said. I hadn’t been able to stop hearing those words all weekend. I dreamt about it. I imagined what else he might have said if we’d kept going, and I woke sweaty and needy and so, so pissed it wasn’t real.

I might not have taken measure of the situation Friday night, but I’d measured far more than twice since then. I’d thought about it almost constantly. But I still wasn’t sure that was a bridge I needed to cross.

It’s like there are two wills inside me, and each one insists the other isn’t real. Part of me thinks that this is all just some emotional reaction, a self-destructive break of some kind. I need to go home, grovel at my father’s feet, figure out what went wrong, so that I can fix my life.

The other half of me insists that I don’t need fixing. That the reason things with Silas feel so right is that things with Henry never were. That I was just doing what was expected of me like I’ve always done.

But shouldn’t I try to live up to people’s expectations? I can’t just let go of that. What kind of person would I become then?

As I stay silent, warring with myself, something in Silas’s already weary expression starts to fray further, and I step right over the threshold just to make it stop.

Of course, a normal person says yes when they’re invited inside. They don’t step in before the person at the door has a chance to move back. Now I’m less than a foot away from that distracting chest of his, and with his hand braced on the door he’s looming above me in a way that makes my girlie parts roll over and play dead.

I start to step away, and my heel hits the raised threshold, and I stumble back. I would have fallen on my ass right outside the door again if Silas hadn’t reached out and caught my arm.

“Uh, thanks. And sorry.”

He turns and heads into his kitchen. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a back that muscled in real life. There are all these curves and slopes that I wouldn’t have expected, and I have the sudden urge to trace them with my finger, feel where one muscle gives way to the next.

“I’m starting to think those are your two favorite words.”

I come back into focus and close the door behind me. Then I follow him cautiously into the kitchen.

“You want something to drink?” he asks.

Tequila sounds appropriate for this situation.

“Just water is fine,” I say. “Thanks.”

He shakes his head and pulls two glasses down from the cupboard. “It’s just tap. That okay?”

I nod, but he’s not looking at me, so I voice my answer instead. There’s not an ice machine in his fridge, so he grabs ice for my glass from one of those plastic cube maker things. He fills his own glass up with milk and then comes over to join me at the table.

He sets my water down and I ask, “Are you going to go change?”

Tilting his head to the side, he looks down at me. “Do you want me to?”

Oh God. How could I possibly answer that? Of course, I didn’t want him to change. I’m not crazy. But I needed it if I was going to keep my head clear. I must take too long again because he sets his milk down and turns away. “I’ll be back, Pickle.”

And we’re back to that again.

When he’s gone I gulp down some water and then press the cold glass to the side of my heated face.

I don’t know what it is about this guy that screws with my head so much. It’s like he releases some kind of airborne toxin that melts all my sense. The Silas Virus.

He comes back not even two minutes later. He’s still damp all over, his shaggy hair stuck to the sides of his face and the back of his neck. And he’s still not wearing a shirt. He’s swapped out the towel for a pair of gym shorts, which does nothing to make me any more relaxed. I suppose there’s less chance of a wardrobe malfunction now, but he’s still so very naked.

And nice to look at.

The legs of the chair scrape against aged tile as he pulls it out to take a seat. He demolishes half his glass of milk in one long drink, and my eyes stick on the way his neck moves. His Adam’s apple bobs, and I notice how very defined it is. It’s chiseled like his jaw and his muscles, and as weird as it is . . . it’s kind of a turn-on.

If I can’t even look at the guy’s freaking Adam’s apple without getting tingly, there’s probably no hope for me.

He sets the glass down and wipes his mouth.

His mouth. Oh God.

“Water okay?”

I blink. “Hmm? Oh. Yes, it’s fine. Thanks. I mean—”

“I think you’re the most polite person I’ve ever met.”

I shrug and trace a finger through the condensation on my glass.

“Strict upbringing.”

That’s an understatement. The foster home I’d been in before the Brenners adopted me was practically a military institution. We were out of bed at dawn, and had a full day of scheduled chores and activities. There was never a spare minute to just be . . . to play or imagine or discover something new. I was the youngest one in the group, and all the older kids were used to it, but I still only wanted to be outside lazing around in the sun, climbing trees, playing games.

I can’t be too sorry, though. The Brenners had liked how well-behaved I was. At nine years old, I’d stopped dreaming that some family would come take me away. Or at least . . . I told myself to stop dreaming about it. Even then, I was practical to a fault. But they met me, liked how polite I was. They’d laughed and looked at each other every time I uttered “please” or “thank you” or “sir” in my high-pitched voice. And they picked me, just plucked me up and gave me a new life, and there are still days when my life before that feels like a dream.

So really, structure has worked out well for me most of my life. It’s only the last week and a half that it’s been crumbling around me.