Page 19 of Secondhand Secrets

Last night, he’d brought up her old crush on Gerry Gibbons. Truth was, as part of Harlow’s salt-of-the-earth population, she did have more in common with jocks like him. Uncomplicated. Average in most every way. Her people.

Chip on the other hand. His quick wit and super intelligence labeled him as too much. Too talented. Too clever. Way above her understanding.

How in heavens did we ever get along as friends?

She peered over to him, his current position drawing her focus to his powerful looking biceps, his physicality still a shock, and yet another thing that was too much.

Brains and that body.

Then there was the shiny future ahead of him while she was little more than a scatterbrained artist, who failed to make an actual living out of her art, whilst harboring pipe dreams of leaving her smaller-than-usual town, even though she knew really could.

“Plates?”

She snapped her gaze up to his, not aware she’d been staring, all while her brain scrambled to filter his question on where her mom stored the plates.

“Just over there.” She turned from the soft crackle of butter in the pan and stabbed a finger toward an overhead cupboard. “I’ll have these done soon.”

Though she spoke of the pancakes and pointed in another direction altogether, his gaze stayed on her, gliding down her body, as though returning the favor of her earlier stare.

Her skin warmed in protest at her decision to stubbornly maintain the normal by wearing her usual tiny pajamas. Maybe full-length winter flannels would have served better?

Her eyes inexplicably prickled because, as usual, she had no freaking idea what to do. In the past, she would have thrown herself at him. At anyone, really. But disappointment had a way of birthing caution, and her old patterns just didn’t add up anymore. Especially not with Chip.

So, breaking the stare-off and opting to let him drive the conversation, she turned back to the pan.

“What happened between you and Sarah?”

She slammed her eyes shut and held back a need to swear.

“Nothing.” Though what had happened with Sarah was yet another warning on Ally’s old patterns of behavior. How invested she tended to get with any man of interest. How easily she was hurt. Why Chip should remain off-limits. “Just your typical case of two squabbling women.”

She flipped pancakes and withdrew her attention.

“Really?” His voice, of course, still found her. “You’re playing the ‘two squabbling women’ defense?”

The flat disbelief in his tone spoke of the cheapness of using that tired stereotype, the one that said women in close proximity were doomed to episodes of jealousy and cattiness.

“Chocolate spread still your favorite?” She directed an oblivious smile his way, but his analytical stare didn’t budge, so she used his failure to gather tableware and turned for the plate cupboard in lieu of answering his question.

“Ally?”

She kept busy again, this time with shifting cooked pancakes to a plate and then dropping more batter into the pan. “Yep.”

“What happened between you and Sarah?”

She shut her eyes again and shook her head. “Can we just enjoy breakfast, please?”

“Sure, we can.” Despite the casual term, his tense voice suggested he wouldn’t let her escape this topic so easily. “But Sarah is my sister, and your squabble kind of makes a difference to what happened last night.”

“Our squabble makes no difference to last night.” Ferrying the plate to the table, she strode past him but steeled her focus ahead. “Last night isn’t happening again.”

Even with her back to him, the stare she imagined he leveled her way burned the space between her shoulder blades. “It makes no difference, huh?”

Her heart squeezed, and she peered at the sheer curtains opposite the table, the yard outside seeping through on a hazy impression. Her evasion hurt him, and still, she gave a small nod. Her problems with Sarah had nothing to do with him.

“You have a thing for Dean Holloway.”

Cold shock ran through her, and she spun around, instantly regretting how the move revealed Chip’s still expression, that stillness somehow more painful than the prospect of fielding his anger. “And you’re hurt that Sarah got there first.”

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