Page 8 of When We Were Us
Except, the way he is looking at me is the farthest thing fromfine. A surprised look crosses his handsome features and is quickly replaced by confusion and disbelief. Maybe? Nope. That’s anger.
“What are you doing here?” His words bite, and his brows are scrunched down over familiar dark hazel eyes. He glares at me like this is the last place I would dream of being.
Hank and I have history, and even though it was a long time ago, I do owe him an apology for how I left things. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem like he’s going to be very receptive to anything I have to say right now. We were kids the last time we saw one another, and sure, I would be lying if I said I didn’t sometimes wish things had worked out differently, but what do you know at eighteen? Not as much as you think you do.
I’m suddenly feeling very defensive, but I try to keep my voice and expression even when I reply, “I live here.”
The words come out automatically, and while it’s not a complete lie, it does seem a little ridiculous because it's more like I amstayinghere, at least in the short term. But his tone rankles me. It doesn’t help that I was becoming more and more hangry by the second. And why wouldn’t I be here? He’s kidding, right?
Surprised eyes meet mine. “Since when?”
I open my mouth to reply just as his phone rings. He huffs out a breath and pulls it from his pocket, flipping it open and stabbing at the button with a thick finger. Raising it to his ear, he turns away from me.
A flip phone? Really? People still use those?
Hank paces a couple of steps toward the open garage door and then turns back, but he keeps his distance. His gaze is trainedon the floor while he listens to whomever is on the other end of the phone.
As he steps away and speaks quietly into his phone, curiosity wins out and I take the opportunity to run my eyes over the rest of him. He’s definitely not happy to see me, but I’m not dead.
He looks good. Older, obviously, with small lines at the corners of his eyes that would probably crinkle on a smile—if he could actually do that now. It doesn’t seem likely given the scowl he seems to be permanently wearing.He always did have a great laugh, though.
His hair is longer, just dusting the tips of his ears, with the ends curling out from under his baseball cap, and the slightest bit of salt is mixed with brown pepper at his temples. Short sideburns trail down from there to stubble on his chin. Not long, but just enough to make his already handsome features look more rugged.
Standing at just over six-foot-four, his right arm is crossed over his chest with his fingers tucked under his left bicep, and I can just make out the faint outline of some kind of firearm strapped to his body under his shirt. Not much has changed there. This is Montana after all.
Worn army-green cargo pants hug his thighs and ass to perfection, and his black T-shirt stretches tight over his shoulders and wide biceps. Dirty work boots encase his feet, and I suddenly remember the scar on his left pinky toe where he almost sliced it off when he was sixteen. I’d cut my second toe open one day in the pond, in almost the exact same spot. After he’d helped me clean it, he’d showed me his and we’d laughed because we had matching scars.
I wonder if he remembers that.
I let my eyes roam back up his body. Was he always this big? This broad? I mean, sure, I haven't seen him in years. The almost two decades have done him good, but I can definitely see traces of the sweet kid I once knew. The same eyes with thick, darklashes I always admired, and the same full lips that gave me my first kiss at eighteen.
My gut gives an excited little flutter that seems so out of place. I shake my head.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I don’t have time to dissect that at the moment because Hank is wrapping up his phone call. As much fun as getting an unobscured view of grown-up Hank is, I do not need to be caught ogling him when he turns around.
I crane my neck one last time, casually rubbing it to cover the fact that I’m checking his left hand for a ring. Nothing. Not even a white outline or an indent of where a ring should be.
Again, not that it matters to me. Because Hank isn’t mine anymore. Now, if I could just get my lady parts to take the hint, that would be great. I almost snort, thinking of Ginger and her comments about shacking up with Backwoods Darryl.
“Yeah, I gathered that.” He nods after the person on the other end of the line speaks.
I clear my throat and turn away, busying myself with capping the tube of tire goop and retrieving my bike tire. Again, the last thing I need is for him to catch me taking mental inventory of how good he looks.
“OK. Thanks, Pop.” He finishes his conversation and flips the phone shut, turning back to me.
I soften some at the thought of Duke Hayes—Pop. I had always been sort of jealous of the Hayes kids’ relationship with their dad. Especially after my own went and drove his car into a ditch.
I glance over as Hank tips his chin in the direction of the house. “You left the water on out front. I shut it off. No water pressure,” he says, the tone still clipped, but it doesn't have near the same bite to it.
“I noticed it seemed a little low. Thanks.” I set my tireproject down on the workbench. “How is your dad, anyway? Your mom?” I ask, unable to help myself.
“Fine.” He gives me an assessing look.
So, it’s going to be like that then. The way he’s watching me, like I’m some nobody caught trespassing, has my hackles back up. This is my childhood home. Sure, I’d left the first chance I had, because that had always been my plan. I have a right to be here, but I don't want to argue. So, I leave it alone.
“Tell them hello for me,” I say instead, turning to grab the bike tire. Might as well see if this thing works.
