Page 46 of Bottle Shock
I blinked, still catching up. “They were both great.”
“That’s not helpful,” she said, grinning. “Which one felt better?”
I cleared my throat, stalling. “Honestly? Go with your gut. Trust your instincts.”
Satisfaction flickered across her face as she gathered her pages—just as the front door burst open.
“Scottie? You still here?” Elyse’s voice rang through the house.
Scottie’s head snapped toward the sound. “Back here. Coming.” She tucked the script under her arm and darted toward the hall. “Thanks for your help.”
Before I could respond, she was gone, disappearing around the corner.
I stood there for a moment, still staring at the space she left behind, reeling from my reaction to her.
Whatever that was, it didn’t stand a chance. Not when she was about to start a whole new life and I’d spent mine drifting from one place to the next.
That was the start of me keeping my distance from Scottie. Between weekend visits and holidays, I made sure our paths rarely crossed. It was easier that way.
Until now.
“Did you hear me?” Scottie’s voice snaps me back to the present. She’s looking at me from the driver’s seat, one eyebrow raised.“Coffee. How do you take it?”
I scrub a hand down my face, trying to focus. “Black.”
She makes an exaggerated gagging sound. “Gross. Why do all men take their coffee black? It’s like you all hate joy.”
A laugh tumbles out of me. “It’s just easy. We can only do one thing at a time.”
“That sounds about right.”
“What about you? How do you take your coffee?”
“If Ariana is making it, then it’s ahalf-sweet, sugar-free white-chocolate-coconut Americano with extra ice and cream.But if I’m making it at home, it’s drip or some overpriced pod with sugar-free flavored creamer. It has to be sugar-free. I’m not sure if you remember, but I have type 1, so I have to manage my carb intake.”
“Of course I remember.” How could she think Iwouldn’t? Am I so far removed from her memories that she’s forgotten I was there the day she passed out?
Her eyes lock with mine for a brief moment, wide and maybe even a little unsure, like she doesn’t know what to do with the fact that I remember.
She looks back to the road, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, pretending the moment never happened.
“But yeah,” she says after a second, her voice lighter now, like she’s steering us both away from whatever just passed between us. “Type 1 diabetic. And, you know, ADHD—because apparently my pancreas and my brain decided to team up against me.” She laughs softly, shaking her head. “You’ve probably noticed. I’m a lot.”
The humor in her tone doesn’t land the way I think she wants it to. It’s deflecting. And all I can think is that at some point, someone made her feel like the things she can’t control—the illnesses that are probably exhausting to live with every single day—are too much. I hate that.
And I hate whoever made her believe it.
“You’re not a lot.”
Her smile slowly eases, softening at the edges before it disappears altogether. She doesn’t look at me, just keeps her eyes on the road like she’s concentrating too hard on the white lines ahead.
For the rest of the drive back to Red Mountain, we keep the conversation light—swapping quirks, weird habits, favorite colors, and favorite foods. It’s twenty questions on steroids, and by the time we pull into my driveway, I’m mentally drained. I’m not sure how much of it I’ll actually retain, but I’ll try.
Scottie surprises me by getting out of the car when I do.
“I need to stretch,” she explains, rolling her shoulders. “My neck is killing me. Plus, your sister dragged me to some torture class this morning, and my body is protesting.”
I watch as she lifts her arms overhead, letting out a groan that sends a bolt of heat straight through me, my cock pressing uncomfortably against my zipper.
