Page 43 of Well That Happened

Then we kissed in her room after she moved in.

But now?

Space.

Smiles that don’t reach her eyes.

A different kind of energy around Grayson.

I don’t know if something happened. I don’t want to assume. But I know how to read people. And she’s been slipping through my fingers since the moment I thought I was finally getting a grip.

Still, I’m not going to push.

I’m not going to beg for a girl who has the right to figure her shit out.

All I can do is show up. Be steady. Be here.

So I text my sister. Tell her I’ll call tonight.

Then I grab the dumb orange cowboy hat I promised to wear, crack open a soda, and start stringing up lights for the party I planned half to distract myself.

And half to maybe—just maybe—make her smile again.

I’m halfway through stringing fake cobwebs across the front windows when I hear the door creak open behind me.

“Tell me you’re not actually using tape on those walls,” Rilee says.

I grin over my shoulder. “Relax. It’s painter’s tape. Barely counts as vandalism.”

She steps inside, arms crossed over a long black cardigan. Her hair’s in loose waves, makeup still fresh like she hasn’t been rushing around all day saving lives. Her boots make a satisfying click on the hardwood as she walks over, surveying my work like a very sexy building inspector.

“You missed a spot,” she says, pointing to the top corner. “Give me the tape.”

I hand it over, and she climbs up onto the armrest of the couch—her shirt lifting just enough to flash a sliver of skin.

I don’t mean to stare.

Okay, that’s a lie.

“You know,” I say, leaning against the wall, “there are easier ways to make a guy lose focus.”

She looks down at me. “This outfit?”

Before I can respond, my phone buzzes in my pocket.

Sierra.

“Give me a sec,” I say, backing toward the hallway. “It’s my sister. She’s been having a week.”

Rilee nods. “Go. I’ll finish haunting your living room.”

I step into the kitchen and answer.

“Hey, little monster,” I say, trying to keep it light.

She’s crying.

Not full meltdown—just that quiet, edge-of-the-knife kind of crying that makes your chest hurt.

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