I turn off the burner to the stove and continue facing away from Mike, checking my phone while I wait for my cheeks to stop melting off. There are no missed calls or texts from my uncle, not that this day could possibly get any worse. But really, I’m just pretending to care about my phone while I relive the past sixty seconds, wishing I could have run a little faster and tackled Mike to the ground before he opened that damn closet door.
“If you tell me why you think I’m hot,” he negotiates from the entryway to the kitchen, “I’ll tell you why I think you’re hot.”
I glance over my shoulder at him before I can help it, because did he just say I’m hot? But Mike isn’t smiling like he’s joking or playing or lying. He’s just leaning against the jamb—all six-foot-one, rock star hair, panty-melting eyes—waiting for me to answer him. His gaze doesn’t shy from mine.
“Stop joking,” I order.
“Who’s joking?”
When I turn away from him again, even the tips of my ears are burning. A hot flush creeps up my neck, and I know he can see it. His footsteps move closer as I scoop his burnt omelet onto a plate, and when I turn back around, he’s right there, utterly serious, waiting for me to say something.
“I have to pee,” I squeak, and I thrust the plate at him.
This is my great response to Mike hitting on me. Is he hitting on me?! I just announced I have to pee, and now I’m rushing from the kitchen. Oh my God, what the hell am I even doing?!
“Your lips,” Mike calls after me, and I freeze in my tracks and look over my shoulder. His eyes lock with mine, making my heart jackhammer so violently in my chest that I’m sure both of us can hear it. I hold his gaze for as long as I can—a split second—and then I turn back around to finish escaping to the bathroom.
Chapter 24
In Mike’s bathroom mirror, my reflection pokes her bottom lip, wondering if Mike could have been telling the truth: if maybe he thinks I have attractive lips . . . They’re not particularly pink. They’re not particularly pouty. They’re not particularly anything.
Poke. Squish. Poke. Poke.
Amber eyes stare back at me, eyebrows knitting.
I have to pee. Smooth, Hailey, smooth. I close my eyes and shake my head at myself. I have to pee. In the history of awkward girls everywhere, has there ever been a more pathetic response to flirting?
Was Mike flirting with me?
I remember the look on his face when I glanced over my shoulder, and I continue prodding at my bottom lip while the edge of the sink presses a line into my shins—the price of being five feet tall in a giant’s home. My reflection met me only after I scaled the sink like a miniature King Kong and roosted here, where we could frown at each other in earnest.
The past two days have felt like a nightmare and a dream.
Danica kicking me out: nightmare. Mike teaching me to play the drums: dream. Waiting for a call from my uncle to ruin my whole life: nightmare. Sharing a pillow with the only man who has ever made me spark: dream. Him telling me that my lips are hot: confusing.
Confusing, confusing, confusing.
It’s not that I’ve never had a guy find me attractive before. I got asked out often enough back home, and I know quite a few guys found me pretty . . . Not Danica pretty, but . . . Hailey pretty. Small-town pretty. Hand-me-down pretty.
Definitely not rock-star pretty. Not pretty enough for Mike to look at me the way he did.
But there it was: that look. It’s cataloged clearly in my mind, along with the way his eyes looked in the soft light of his bedroom last night, the way his hair stood up this morning.
My teeth punish my bottom lip as I continue frowning at my wild-haired reflection. My cheeks are a little too pale. My eyes are a little too big. My eyebrows are a little too thick. All of me is a little too little.
I’m uselessly trying to tame my hair with one of Mike’s combs when the doorbell rings. My hand stills as the bells echo through the house, and I hear the front door open. Then voices: Mike’s and—
I round the corner to the living room and see her: her perfect reddish-brown hair, her periwinkle cashmere sweater, the massive gift basket in her arms.
“What the hell?” Danica snarls while I stand there with a comb stuck in my hair.
“What are you doing here?” Mike asks, like it isn’t the first time he’s voiced the question, and Danica’s eyebrows slam together as she scowls up at him.
“What is she doing here?”
“You kicked her out.”
Danica’s face whips in my direction just after I tear the comb free from my hair. “You told me you weren’t sleeping with him! You fucking liar! You’re such a fucking—”
“I’m not—” I start, but Mike’s voice booms over mine.
“Don’t you finish that goddamn sentence,” he snaps, and the crazy look in Danica’s eyes immediately clears. She stares up at him like a pit bull that’s just realized it has a master, and Mike stares down at her like he’d like to see her put to sleep.
Danica, ever calculating, takes a moment to collect herself, and in that moment, she notices the couch. She takes in the messy sheets, the wrinkled blanket, the bed pillow on the end, and she snaps them together like puzzle pieces. The final picture tells her that I slept in the living room, that I’m not a threat, that Mike is still hers for the taking.
She makes a production of taking a calming breath and tucking her hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry.” She locks eyes with me, and mine narrow. “I’m sorry, Hailey. I just get really jealous.” She laughs to herself, softly at first, and then a full-on giggle. “Look at me, I’m a mess. I just—” She bats her eyelashes up at Mike. “I’ve just been going crazy over the thought of losing you. I know I should have brought this sooner, but—” She lifts the gift basket as an offering. “Look, I made you a get well basket. It has your favorite soup, and your favorite cookies, and—”