In the Weeds (Lovelight #2)(70)

It begins again a moment later.

I know she doesn’t have her phone. It’s still at the bottom of the pond, likely making a fine home with one of the boat oars Luka dropped in two summers ago. I take a step closer and squint at the screen. A tiny box in the corner tells me Josie is calling. I’ve heard her name before from Evelyn, a friendly affection in her voice.

My hand hovers over the trackpad and I tap answer before I can talk myself out of it. I’ll take a message, hang up, and make us some damn pancakes.

A woman’s face instantly appears on the screen. Short black hair. A Metallica sweatshirt. Wide brown eyes that blink and then grow wider.

“Holy shit,” says a tinny voice from the speaker.

My reflection appears in the top left side of the screen, arm braced against the edge of the table and hand still hovering over the keyboard. I am … not wearing a shirt. Pretty sure you can see Evie’s scratch marks across my chest. I push up off the table and stand there like an idiot, hesitantly waving the spatula in greeting.

Did not know this was a video call.

“Um, hello.”

Socked feet shuffle down the hallway. Evie appears in the entrance to the kitchen wearing one of my flannels, half-buttoned and barely skimming her thighs. She has her knit—I exhale a shaky breath and grab the back of the chair—she has her cable knit socks pulled to her knees. I’m torn between the desire to burn those fucking things and have her wear nothing but those, her knees hugging my ears and her hands in my hair.

“Hey,” she mumbles, scooting her way over to me and brushing a brief kiss to the underside of my jaw. Her arms curl around my waist and she hugs me tight. It’s the sort of easy affection I’ve been craving from her, and I can’t appreciate it because I’m frozen in front of the camera, staring like a deer in headlights over Evie’s head. If the kitchen floor could swallow me whole, that would be great.

I knew I shouldn’t have answered the fucking call.

“My, my, my. Look what we have here.”

Evie jumps, face snapping towards the computer. My hands grip her hips in silent apology.

“I didn’t know it was a video call,” I whisper, just for her.

Evelyn blinks. The woman on the screen stares wordlessly at us both and then steeples her fingers together. She taps them lightly, looking like a movie villain. A slow grin starts at the edge of her mouth until her whole face looks fit to burst with unrestrained glee.

It’s terrifying.

“So many things are beginning to make sense,” she says with a weird aristocratic accent. Evie sighs and pats once at my chest, tipping her head back to look up at me. She has a faint blush on her cheeks, but she has a smile, too. Her eyes trail down my torso and land on the thin scratches on my side. The flush on her cheeks trips a shade darker.

“Why don’t you go put a shirt on?”

“No need to on my account,” comes the voice from the screen.

“I’m gonna go put a shirt on,” I agree. I place the spatula on the table and make a quick exit, retreating to the safety of my bedroom.

Once the door clicks shut behind me, I pull a flannel from the top drawer without bothering to look at it, taking my time to do up the buttons. It’s for the best that I'm not standing awkwardly behind Evie during a phone call with her friend. I’m not trying to make anything difficult for her. I don’t want her to feel any pressure, from me or anyone else. She puts enough on herself.

I rub the palm of my hand against the back of my neck, frustrated. With the situation but mostly with myself, at my inability to just—say what I want.

I know what I want.

I glance at the bed—the twisted sheets and the faint indent in the pillow next to mine.

But I know it’s selfish to want it.

The door cracks open and Evie pokes her head around the corner, her hair a tangled mess and falling over her shoulders. She smiles gently at me when she sees me standing in the middle of the room and opens the door further. She places a coffee mug on the edge of the dresser like we do this every day.

I wish we did.

I clear my throat. “Everything okay?”

She nods and crosses her arms over her chest as she leans up against the doorframe, an easy smile on her face. All I can do is stare at the buttons of the shirt she stole, the sides barely covering the swell of her breasts. It would be so easy to hook my finger there, pull her to me and forget the mess in my head.

How long is she staying? What will happen when she goes?

How far gone am I and do I even care?

It would all disappear with my mouth on hers.

Half of me expects her to push the conversation, demand that we talk through everything we cracked wide open last night. But she keeps her eyes on me, gaze warm and honest and kind. There’s a faded line pressed from the corner of her eye to the curve of her jaw, a crease from my pillow imprinted against her cheek.

I want her like this every single morning.

“You left your phone on the counter,” she tells me, uncrossing her arms and edging further in the room. “Mabel called and said you’re late.”

I groan. I forgot I volunteered to help her today. Spring wedding season is chaotic at the greenery, and she’s too short to do the arches by herself. I glance down the long line of Evie’s body propped up against the dresser and groan again.

I had plans this morning. Pancakes and syrup with the doors to the porch thrown open wide. The sun on her skin and the tempting line of her throat. I rub at my chest and ignore the low flare of disappointment.