Hopeless (Hopeless #1)(27)
“Hey,” I say. I can’t think of anything else to say. Even if I could think of something else to say, I probably wouldn’t be able to say it since I can’t freaking breathe! He’s standing on the top step of my entryway, hands hanging loosely in the pockets of his jeans. His hair still needs a trim, but when he brings his hand up and pushes it out of his eyes, the thought of him trimming that hair is suddenly the worst idea in the world.
“Hi.” He’s smiling awkwardly and he looks nervous and it’s terribly attractive. He’s in a good mood. For now, anyway. Who knows when he’ll get pissed off and feel like arguing again.
“Um,” I say, uneasily. I know the next step is to invite him in, but that’s only if I’m actually wanting him inside my house, and to be honest, the jury is still out on that one.
“You busy?” he asks.
I glance back into the kitchen at the inconceivable mess I’ve made. “Sort of.” It’s not a lie. I’m sort of incredibly busy.
He looks away and nods, then points behind him to his car. “Yeah. I guess I’ll…go.” He takes a step back off the top step.
“No,” I say, much too quickly and a decibel too loudly. It’s an almost desperate no, and I cringe from embarrassment. As much as I don’t know why he’s here or why he even keeps bothering, my curiosity gets the best of me. I step aside and open the door further. “You can come in, but you might be put to work.”
He hesitates, then ascends the step again. He walks inside and I shut the door behind us. Before it can get any more awkward, I walk into the kitchen and pick up the measuring cup and get right back to work like there isn’t some random, temperamental, hot guy standing in my house.
“You prepping for a bake sale?” He makes his way around the bar and eyes the plethora of desserts covering my counter.
“My mom’s out of town for the weekend. She’s anti-sugar, so I kind of go crazy when she’s not here.”
He laughs and picks up a cookie, but looks at me first for permission.
“Help yourself,” I say. “But be warned, just because I like to bake doesn’t mean I’m good at it.” I sift the last of the flour and pour it into the mixing bowl.
“So you get the house to yourself and you spend Friday night baking? Typical teenager,” he says mockingly.
“What can I say?” I shrug. “I’m a rebel.”
He turns around and opens a cabinet, eyeing the contents, then shuts it. He steps to the left and opens another cabinet, then takes out a glass. “Got any milk?” he asks while heading to the refrigerator. I pause from stirring and watch as he pulls the milk out and pours himself a glass like he’s right at home. He takes a drink and turns around to catch me staring at him, then he grins. “You shouldn’t offer cookies without milk, you know. You’re a pretty pathetic hostess.” He grabs another cookie and walks himself and the milk to the bar and takes a seat.
“I try to save my hospitality for invited guests,” I say, turning back to the counter.
“Ouch.”
I turn the mixer on, creating an excuse to not have to talk to him for three minutes on medium to high speed. I try to remember what I look like, without noticeably searching for a reflective surface. I’m pretty sure I’ve got flour everywhere. I know my hair is being held up with a pencil and my sweatpants are being worn for the fourth evening in a row. Unwashed. I try to nonchalantly wipe away any visible traces of flour, but I’m aware it’s a lost cause. Oh well, there’s no way I could look any worse right now than when I was laid out on the couch with gravel embedded into my cheek.
I turn the mixer off and depress the button to free the mixing blades. I bring one to my mouth and lick it, and walk the other one to where he’s seated. “Want one? It’s German chocolate.”
He takes it out of my hand and smiles. “How hospitable of you.”
“Shut up and lick it or I’m keeping it for myself.” I walk to the cabinet and grab my own cup, but pour myself a glass of water instead. “You want some water or do you want to continue pretending you can stomach that vegan shit?”
He laughs and crinkles up his nose, then pushes his cup across the bar toward me. “I was trying to be nice, but I can’t take another sip of whatever the hell this is. Yes, water. Please.”
I laugh and rinse out his cup, then slide him the glass of water. I take a seat in the chair across from him and eye him while I bite into a brownie. I’m waiting for him to explain why he’s here, but he doesn’t. He just sits across from me and watches me eat. I don’t ask him why he’s here because I sort of like the quiet between us. It works better when we both shut up, since all of our conversations tend to end in arguments.
Holder stands up and walks into the living room without an explanation. He looks around curiously, his attention being stolen by the photographs on the walls. He walks closer to them and slowly scans each picture. I lean back in my chair and watch him be nosey.
He’s never in much of a hurry and seems so assured in every movement he makes. It’s like all of his thoughts and actions are meticulously planned out days in advance. I can just picture him in his bedroom, writing down the words he plans to use the following day, because he’s so selective with them.
“Your mom seems really young,” he says.