Still Not Over You(25)

I won’t lie. I’m relieved.

Even with Dallas downstairs, entertaining himself in the living room, I don’t quite feel safe until I know Landon’s familiar presence will be here.

I can’t believe he still has the old Impala. He used to be such a Jensen Ackles fanboy, even if you’ll never get him to admit it out loud.

For a moment I can’t help smiling with a fond pang of memory. The growl of the Impala suits the beast he is now, but it’s the fact that he’s kept it all this time that makes me think he’s still got something of the old Landon in him.

The old Landon who used to talk to me about the stars, a long time ago.

While he hung out with Steve, I’d be sprawled out on the back porch writing fan fiction.

He’d always come out once he and Steve were done, tease me a little about my obsession with doing slasher fic based on a very popular boy wizard series, and then settle in one of the patio chairs.

He'd lean back with his sweet tiger body, and look up at the sky with this kind of quiet dreamy look that always fascinated me. Way more than figuring out how to get grown-up wizard boy to kiss his trusty sidekick, if I'm being honest.

He’d point out constellations. He had a gift. Just tracing stars from one to the next, and knowing them by name, showing me the patterns and pictures and dreams people have known for ages in the sky.

Once, he told me that no matter where he went in the world, he’d always try to find the stars that made him remember home.

I wonder if he still looks at the stars, now.

And I wonder why – seriously, why? – my heart leaps, at the sound of him coming home. Wonder if it’s more than just sheer relief that he’s back to keep the place safe because I’m apparently not that great at it.

It’s not home, I remind myself, watching the Impala ease around the last turn and pull up to the house, my stomach sinking. Not your home, anyway.

I don’t really know how to tell him about the prowler. Before that it had been an uneventful day, save for the occasional glimpse of Riker letting me know he was around – unfortunately out of reach at just the wrong time.

Besides that, it was just me, my notebook, and the first good writing day I’ve had in a long, long while. Maybe once I report in that I didn’t destroy Landon’s mini-McMansion, he’ll be a little less hostile.

He looks haggard and harried, as he steps out of the Impala with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and slams the car door shut, barely sparing a glance at the third car in the drive. I push myself up with one last scratch behind the cats’ ears and head over to the edge of the balcony, folding my arms on the railing and leaning over.

“How’d it go?” I call down.

He stiffens like I've just slapped him, jerking and looking up. A peevish glare pins me in place.

There’s something about it that just doesn’t have the power to hurt this time. Not now. He looks more like a tired man at the end of his rope than that asshole who hates my guts. I almost want to laugh, but I don’t think he’d give me a chance to explain that it’s affection, not mockery.

He doesn’t give me a chance for anything, really, when all he does is grunt, stalk up the front steps, and then inside, the door slamming in his wake.

I glance at the cats, who tense restlessly, ears perked, and grin. “Come on, boys. Let’s go welcome Daddy home.”

Yeah, I know. I know.

Don’t leave me home alone for a day with a vivid imagination, two on-page sex scenes to write, and an old crush simmering in my veins.

With the cats trying to trip me every step of the way, I head inside and down the stairs. I catch him just as he’s dumping his duffel bag on one of the kitchen barstools.

We always seem to meet in the kitchen, which feels weird. I think of kitchens as places where families come together, but it’s not hard to tell he doesn’t see me as family anymore.

I put on a smile anyway. While he was gone, I decided that no matter how much of an asshole he’s being, I’m going to be as nice as I can.

Kill ‘em with kindness.

That’s what my mom always says, speaking from years of experience overseas, dealing with different people. Then again, my mom’s feisty enough to kill ‘em with a frying pan upside the head, too, but let’s hope I don’t have to resort to measures that drastic to get Landon to actually talk to me.

“So,” I ask, lacing my hands together behind my back. “Rough time? You don’t look happy.”

He shoots me a dark look. His brows are thunderheads. “Why should I be?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Big job, great paycheck, and it couldn’t have been a disaster or I’d have seen it on TMZ.”

“So you watch trash,” he grunts sardonically. “Good to know.”

Laconic asshole.

I grit my teeth, just knowing his parents didn’t teach him manners this bad. I don't know where it comes from until I remember, oh, wait, actually, I do.

Okay. Whatever. So the Polly Pocket happy princess act isn’t working on him. Guess I’ll just have to level with him straight.

“Landon.”

He doesn’t answer me, pointedly looking down as he digs in his duffel bag. I sigh, hands on my hips.

“Landon.” This time, it comes out sharper.

His shoulders twitch. His jaw works, and then he grudgingly looks up at me. I stare at him, but staring him down is like trying to win a stare-off with a cat. Those flinty blue eyes give away nothing. I frown.