Page 18 of Hide and Keep

After making a show out of pocketing his keys while keeping my gaze, he says, “You’re my responsibility now. Where you go, I go, and vice versa.”

I can’t. Ican’tgo inside with him. It’ll be too much. This next part is hard enough without seeing where Crue spends his free time.

“I’m not going into your dumpy little shack.” I flutter my fingers at the house dismissively.

Those light eyes narrow. “Just because it’s not a mansion, doesn’t make it a shack.”

“It looks infested.”

“You’re such a…” He shakes his head but doesn’t finish as he gets out.

Not that he needs to. I know how I sound. It’s not that hard to pull off the snob routine when it’s all I’ve ever been around, ever known. Back in the corn maze, I hid this side of me so far out of sight, he probably wouldn’t have even believed me if I tried telling him who I was.

Opening my door, he props a forearm on the roof and leans toward me, saying, “Look, I gotta go in there and I don’t trust you enough to leave you out here by yourself, so you can either walk or I’ll carry you. Either way, you’re coming inside with me.”

“Despite what my father wants you to believe, I’m not a fucking toddler.”

“Until I see the proof for myself, I’m gonna have to defer to his word.”

“Fine. I can’t believe I have to actually show you this, but…” I pretend I’m getting something out of my shoe, then flip him off as if I found my middle finger in my size-six-and-a-half lululemons. I glance from it to him with awould you look at thatexpression.

He shoves off his car. “Carrying it is.”

I scramble out of the seat, pushing his middle out of my way, noting the defined abs beneath his shirt. “I’ll walk. I’ll walk. Goddess. Nobody can take a joke anymore?”

“Like your hilarious shirt?”

“Exactly,” I mumble while approaching the door. I point at it. “It’s purple.”

“Good job, Ever,” he says with a voice full of mock praise, then pats my head like one would an actual toddler’s. “Maybe tomorrow you can share what numbers you know.”

My middle finger aches to meet his perfectly chiseled face again.

“Was it like that when you moved in or did you paint it?” I ask, pointing at the front door.

“My mom,” is all he says.

“Your mother painted your door?”

“No, she painted her door. This is her house. And my dad’s.”

“You still live with your parents?” I ask without even trying to hide my disbelief. He’s older than me.

“So do you.”

“But I’m—” I cut myself off.

“What? Rich?”

“Obviously,” I snap. What other reason could therepossiblybe? Certainly not that my father won’t let me move out.

With a headshake full of incredulity, he unlocks the deadbolt and motions for me to go in first.

One look inside and the bitchiness starts flowing from my mouth.

“It stinks.”

It smells delicious, like basil and broth and some kind of bread I’m dying to sink my teeth into.

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