Chapter Sixteen
Gus
Billy stopped sleeping in my room. It was for the best, for both of us, but I missed him. And I hadn’t washed my sheets yet. Each night I went to bed alone, I convinced myself I could smell him, but in reality, I couldn’t even smell myself as I’d taken to showering twelve times a day to calm myself down.
I was so hot for him, and yet I knew I couldn’t have him. That just one more night with him, one more kiss, would push us so far into a vortex of angst that we’d lose the easy friendship we’d started with forever.
If you could call it friendship. I’d never spent years clinging to a drunken kiss from any of my other friends, and I’d kissed a fair few of them. More. And still, no one had ever consumed me like Billy did. Working with him was torture, especially as, in typical English fashion, autumn turned out to be warmer than summer had been. T-shirts became optional extras. It was almost law that they were gone by lunchtime, and as Billy grew stronger by the day, and his lean muscles filled out, my ability to deal with how beautiful he was got less and less.
“Did you fall asleep while standing there?”
“What?”
Billy scowled, something he was doing more of these days. “You’re doing my head in.”
He stomped away before I could think of an answer, and disappeared down the ladder. I wondered if he’d gone for the day, leaving me to drive home alone, which he’d done more than once this week already, but as I neared the edge of roof, Mia’s voice greeted me, along with Billy’s laugh.
I missed his laugh too, perhaps more than I missed him in my bed.
Jesus, dude. He only slept there, like, three times, or whatever. You’ve slept alone for years.
It was true. Even when I stayed out all night after a hook-up, I rarely caught more than a catnap. I’d never slept as soundly as I did curled up around Billy with my face buried in his neck.
He laughed again. Steeling myself, I slid down the ladder to face him, but he wasn’t looking my way. He was lounging against the van, the perfect picture of relaxation as he shared a joke with my sister.
Irritation spread through me, sharp and spiky. I hoofed the spade on my back to the van and chucked it inside. It landed on my toolbox with a metallic clunk that wasn’t nearly loud enough to drown out the irrational idiot having a rave in my brain. Because it wasn’t as if I didn’t want Billy and Mia to get along. God, it warmed my heart, so why did it also feel like a knife to my chest?
It didn’t make any sense.
Nothing did.
I slammed the van door. Mia appeared behind me like a curious meerkat with more attitude than I was in the mood to handle.
She arched a perfect brow. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing’s the matter. What are you doing here?”
“Visiting. Not a crime, is it?”
“No, but you don’t show up at work unless you’re trying to annoy either me or Luke, and Luke’s not here, so...”
“I know he’s not here. He went to pick up the slabs for my stall display at the fair.”
“What do you want, Mia?”
Her playful expression sobered. For a fleeting moment, hurt coloured her features, then she schooled them and gave me a glare Billy would’ve been proud of. “I want to make sure you’re still on for Saturday. I was going to ask you to set up for me with Luke and try and do the deliveries myself, but Billy said he’ll help Luke, so it’s whatever now, I guess, along with the fact that I was going to cook you dinner tonight to say thanks for helping me out.”
“Dinner?”
“Too late. You’re a grumpy bastard, so you can whistle for it.”
“What are you cooking?”
“Omelettes. Salade. Tarte aux pommes.”
“Je peux cuisiner moi-même,”I retorted, and opened the van again for no other reason than for something to do, and it was a helpful barrier between me and Mia, though, alas, not for long.
She swore, still in French, and stepped around the door, getting up in my personal space the way only she could. “What’s the matter with you?”