Five Ways to Fall (Ten Tiny Breaths, #4)(57)

“Oh, she’s fine. The freaking-hot lawyer that she wants to duct tape isn’t,” Ben mutters.

Fantastic. He heard all of that. My cheeks burn. I grab a tissue from the box on my nightstand and shove it into his hand, unable to keep the bite from my tone as I ask, “What are you doing sneaking up on me in my bedroom?”

Dabbing at his nostril, he mutters, “I came to get a file for Mason.” Checking the tissue for the growing stain of blood, he adds, “Why are you so violent?”

I roll my eyes. “Did you happen to bring me cold medicine?” Mason knows I was looking for some.

“Is that your way of apologizing?”

“You want me to apologize to you for breaking into my house, sneaking into my bedroom, and scaring the shit out of me?”

He holds up Mason’s keys.

“Semantics,” I mutter, flopping back into my stack of pillows, the small fright having drained me of every last bit of energy.

Lina’s throat-clearing reminds me that she’s still on the phone. “Gotta go to my meeting. I’ll call you later. Have fun, Ben. She’s even more pleasant when she’s sick.” The phone clicks over the speakerphone as I watch Ben wriggle his nose.

A twinge of guilt stirs. “Is it broken?”

“Nah, I think I’ll be okay.” After a pause, “Mason said you have the flu?”

I close my eyes. “I don’t know. It could be the Ebola virus. Or the black plague. Too soon to tell. I’m sure it’s highly contagious, though.”

When I hazard a look at Ben again, I find his gaze drifting over my frame and I know what he sees—uncombed hair, a blotchy face, bloodshot eyes, baggy gray track pants, and my shabby, oversized Depeche Mode T-shirt that reaches mid-thigh. Jared’s shirt that I stole during my red paint incident. Ben dips his head and smiles secretly.

“What?” I snap, fully aware of how unappealing I am at this moment and highly annoyed with my stepbrother for sending our hot, obnoxious co-worker here to witness this. “Ready for me now?” I ask snidely, pulling my covers up and over my body.

Chuckling, he tosses the tissue in the trash can. “Let me get that file from you so you can go back to talking about vibrators and cobwebs.”

My cheeks heat up again, silently cursing Mason. “Pass me those files over there.” I wave a lazy hand at the floor and watch as he reaches down, quietly admiring how well his pants really do fit him.

I feel Ben’s eyes on me as I search through the stack. Finding the one my stepbrother wants, I slap a Post-it note onto the first page and scrawl, “I spy with my little eye something of yours that I just licked. Guess what?” Payback’s a bitch, Mason. I thought you’d have already learned that.

Ben chuckles softly. “I’m not sure I like that evil grin.”

“Don’t worry. You’re not my target.” I close the folder and toss it onto the floor at Ben’s feet. Scowling, I pull the covers over my head. This only makes it harder to breathe but I’m much like a wounded animal when I’m sick, looking for a quiet corner to hole up in and die. Something that Mason was well aware of when he sent Ben over here. I’m going to ring my stepbrother’s scrawny neck when I see him next. “Make sure you lock the front door.”

I hear Ben’s feet pad across the floor. Hazarding a peek a moment later, I find him wandering through my room, his finger running along the frame of my old blue Yamaha electric guitar. “Huh, you weren’t lying about this,” he murmurs.

I’ve had it since I was fifteen, when I lifted a hundred bucks from Annabelle’s purse and headed straight for a pawn shop. I was smart about the whole thing. I waited until she stumbled through the door after a night out at the Fair Oakes country club, knowing she’d just assume that she’d bought an outrageously expensive bottle of wine that night. This kid named Len sat with me in the bleachers of a nearby public school every afternoon and taught me how to play. I was a natural, playing by ear and strumming Led Zeppelin within a year.

The smile comes unbidden as I recall Ben’s comment in Cancún. “Yes, I’m fully aware of how hot that makes me.”

“Fuck, yeah,” Ben mutters, adding with a smile in his tone, “Maybe not right now, though.”

“Shut up.”

His eyes invade the rest of my belongings, skating over the vintage trucks and albums on my wall, the giant beanbag chair I love to sit in while plucking notes absently, the little toy Harley on the bookshelf, a closet filled with clothes dangling haphazardly from hangers. Everything that represents me; everything that helped make the spare room at Jack’s feel like home; everything that I briefly considered torching after Caroline’s hands had been all over it. “You’re an odd one, Miss MacKay. I’m still trying to figure you out. Harleys and rusty old trucks and Depeche Mode.” He pauses. “You like gray, don’t you?”

“My favorite color.” I watch with wariness as Ben approaches me, turns, and then lies down onto my bed beside me, the mattress sinking and creaking with his weight. A weird half-groan, half-growl escapes my throat as he weasels a hand under my back. “Come here. And don’t hit me.” Despite my grumbles and protests, I’m scooped up and resting against his hard chest within seconds.

“Don’t complain when you get sick,” I warn with a scowl, closing my eyes and fighting the urge to sigh as deft fingers begin smoothing through my hair. If this is Ben’s idea of foreplay . . . I’ll take it. Even with my sinuses being clogged, I’m still able to distinguish that clean, sporty-smelling cologne of his. It reminds me of the weekend. It also reminds me that I have a rather unattractive Vicks mustache that he hasn’t teased me about . . . yet.