Page 8 of Well That Happened

I lean against the counter, watching him work.

He catches me staring and raises a brow. “You’re grumpier than usual. Sleep okay?”

“You have no idea.”

He shrugs, flips a pancake, and says nothing.

The doorbell rings.

I don’t move.

Caleb gives me a look and nods toward it. “You gonna get that?”

I grit my teeth and head to the door, yank it open.

And there she is.

Rilee Jameson. Wearing leggings, an oversized hoodie, and the expression of someone who just lost a bar fight with life itself.

A duffel bag hangs off her shoulder. Her hair’s pulled into a messy bun, and she’s got dried mascara under one eye.

She looks tired.

And hot.

And completely pissed off to see me.

“This is a terrible idea,” she says by way of greeting.

“Great. We agree.”

She pushes past me anyway.

While I remind myself not to stare at her mouth.

I shut the door harder than necessary and turn to find her dropping her duffel on the floor like she’s claiming territory.

Footsteps thud down the hall. Caleb appears, spatula in one hand. He takes one look at Rilee and blinks.

“Oh,” he says, surprised. “Hey. What’s going on?”

She crosses her arms. “Apparently I live here now.”

Caleb looks at me. Then back at her.

Then they share this look—like something unspoken just passed between them—and it punches straight through my chest.

Whatever it is, I don’t like it.

At all.

Caleb rubs the back of his neck. “Well. Uh. Cool. You want pancakes?”

“Seriously?” I snap. “She just barges in, and you’re offering her breakfast?”

“I’m being polite,” he says, maddeningly calm.

“Try being realistic. This house is full. We don’t need drama on top of—”

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