The look that crosses over his face makes me think I might have hurt him, and I feel badly for a moment. But then it passes. "You've definitely changed, sweet cheeks."
I flush warm again under his gaze, and I instinctively reach up to touch my hair, the hot mess that it is, pulled up into a haphazard ponytail. Damn it, why did I come out here without even glancing in the mirror first? And in my clothes from yesterday. I just know I look like total crap right now, and meanwhile, Hendrix is standing half-naked in my damn kitchen, not even a foot away from me, looking like sex-on-a-stick.
Hendrix's laugh breaks through my thoughts. "It's fine," he says, nodding at my attempt to pat my hair back into place. "Like I haven't seen you after you've just rolled out of bed before."
My heart races at the intimacy of his words, and I nearly choke on my sip of coffee again. "What? You've never seen me just out of bed."
Not that I haven't thought about it, though. How many times have I thought about Hendrix seeing me in bed?
Too many to count, that's the answer. The very inappropriate freaking answer.
Hendrix laughs again. "We lived together for two years, Addy-girl," he says. "It's not like you never rolled up into the kitchen after you just woke up in the morning. It's not a big deal."
He turns again, his back to me as he spoons eggs and bacon onto a plate, then grabs toast from the toaster. Not a big deal, I think. That's right. I have to remind myself of the fact that Hendrix has never thought of me the way I've fantasized about him.
The way I've fantasized about him despite my better judgment. Because my libido apparently likes guys who are total dicks.
Hendrix hands me a plate. "So, Addy-girl," he says. "What's on your agenda today, other than ogling me in the kitchen?"
"I am not ogling you." I huff and turn toward the dining room, thankful for the excuse to get away from Hendrix and his glorious abs. Because that's what they are. I've been around a lot of hot guys for the past few years, but none of them compare to Hendrix, especially since he's returned from his stint in the Marines. Now, he seems to have this brooding intensity about him that's different from other men. He looks more dangerous than the guys I'm surrounded by. And that makes me shiver.
"Don't lie," he says, pulling up a chair right beside me at the table. I picked the chair on the end of the table on purpose, but he sits down right beside me like he doesn't care. He's uncomfortably close.
"I'm not lying," I say. "I was in no way ogling you. Why are you sitting right next to me?"
Hendrix leans over the table and takes a bite of toast, looking up at me with a crooked grin. "I just thought you might have missed me, is all."
"What the hell would give you that impression?" I ask. Miss him? After the horrible things he said about me that night? The memory returns to the front of my thoughts, as if it happened yesterday, and anger rushes through me. Hendrix might sit here and pretend we're old buddies, good friends separated by a few years of life circumstance, but that's not true. I liked him, once upon a time. More than liked him. I loved him. And he hurt me.
"What?" he asks. "What did I say?"
"Nothing," I say, pushing away my plate and standing up with my coffee. "Absolutely nothing. I'm not hungry anymore." I start to walk away, but pause before I go. "And put on a damn shirt."
SIX YEARS, TEN MONTHS AGO
"What are you doing?" I look up to see Addison walking toward me. I can't decide if I'm pleased or irritated with that fact, since I came out here specifically to avoid my new Stepford family, especially the singing blonde member of said family. Except that Addison looks hot as hell, even if she's wearing khaki slacks and a salmon-colored blouse that belongs on a middle-aged woman. And pearls. Pearls, for shit's sake. She's fifteen, but she dresses like she's forty years old.
She's fifteen. I remind myself of that fact. I might only be sixteen, but she's younger than I am, too young. Even if she dresses like a soccer mom. I try to ignore how damn gorgeous she is, and steel my voice hard as she looks at me.
"What the fuck does it look like I'm doing?" I ask. Better for her to hate me than to get friendly with a fifteen-year-old girl.
"I'm not stupid," she says.
"Perfect little Addison has actually seen a real-life joint before?" I ask, my voice clipped. I'm edgy now that she's out here. Addison has this way of looking at me that makes me nervous, like she knows me better than she does. She looks at me as if she sees through me and all of my bullshit. I don't like it. "Color me fucking surprised."
She rolls her eyes, which should make her more annoying, but somehow makes her hotter. "I've seen a joint before," she says. "I've also seen guys like you, too, with your misunderstood Emo crap. It's not that unique, you know."
"Well, shit, you've got me," I say, an edge in my voice I don't try to hide. But it's not because I'm irritated. It's because I want to put my mouth on her and that's a bad idea. For a million reasons. And if there's one thing I've figured out in the past two months of being here, it's that Addison is something else. She doesn't screw around and she's not the kind of girl you just fuck around with. I hold out the joint. "Want a hit?"