Where We Left Off (Phoenix Falls Series Book 1)

Tate’s former bedroom is in the attic.

Although I did start silently haemorrhaging when Mitch told me where I would be sleeping, I am quietly buzzed about residing in the attic, as it will really facilitate my hermit agenda.

But I couldn’t stay to check it out after dinner. I was weirdly wired and there was this energy in the house that was getting too charged, so I decided that, after Mitch took me for my hand appointment this morning, I would permit myself an unaccompanied house tour. In solitary. Completely alone. Every stalker’s dream.

Mitch took me back to my mom’s, I ingested my antibiotics, and then they left together to start putting boxes in her secret storage unit. I was given a large navy suitcase to decant my essentials into so I piled in winter clothes, my skincare bits, and about thirty books too many, before attempting to start working on the zipper. Impossible, obviously. I took out the skincare and whipped it shut.

Naturally it starts pouring down when I realise that my raincoat is at the bottom of the case so, needing an alternative, I pull on a hoodie instead and then I head out of my mom’s house.

Mitch and my mom were supposed to be back by now so I decide to wait for them in the little shielded bit over our front door – that is, until I see another truck pulling up onto the street.

It turns out that the scraggy metal death-trap I pitch-forked my fist on was Mitch’s, and the sexy black Ford truck I spotted on his curb yesterday belongs to Tate. Before he has a chance to park in front of the driveway I yank up the suitcase handle and begin speed-wheeling it to the sidewalk.

He opens his door and drops his legs down over the step. He’s so tall that his feet are planted on the curb, knees bent.

“Backpacking?” he asks, with one large hand still gripped around the steering wheel. I can see the tendons of his forearm flexing through the sleeve of his shirt.

I walk right up to him and then make a sharp fuck-you left turn, heading down the street.

“Get in the truck and I’ll put your case in the backseat.”

I ignore him and I continue ignoring him, even as I hear him jog up to me, puddles of rain splashing loudly against his boots.

“You’ll drown in this weather,” he says, a teasing lilt in his bass tone.

I scowl up at him and my glasses streak with raindrops immediately. I keep walking though, stubborn bitch that I am.

He steps in front of me and blocks my attempts to skirt around him. He’s wearing a long-sleeve shirt and it’s plastered to his chest. I can see every curve and ridge of his torso.

Every. Single. One.

“You don’t have to shotgun with me, you can ride in the back with your case if you want.” His voice is quieter now and he looks a bit dejected. And also flushed.

Interesting.

Without a word I U-turn back to the house, dragging the case behind me as the rain lashes at my face. I feel him pluck the case from my hand and I watch as he jogs ahead of me to his truck, opening one of the back doors and sliding it inside.

I roll my eyes at him as he shuts the door. Then he re-opens it, remembering the unlikelihood of me wanting to shotgun with him.

“I’ll drive,” I say, and I hold my hand out for the keys.

He folds his arms over his chest. I wish that my glasses were clearer so that I could get a better view. “You don’t have a licence,” he replies flatly.

I make an impatient grippy motion with my outstretched palm. “I’ll risk it.”

“Get in the car please. You’re getting really wet.”

I am actually. My hoodie weighs about fifteen stone.

I turn away from him and hop into the back. He closes the door behind me, surprisingly gently. When he gets into the driver’s seat I realise that I’ve got a horribly perfect view of him thanks to the rear-view mirror. I slink down in my seat to avoid him catching any glances.

“Your case weighs a lot,” he says as he pushes off the curb and starts making his way to Mitch’s house.

I look down at my hand. “I had to stock up on knuckle-dusters.”

His eyes meet mine briefly and then he looks back at the road. “Would you like some music?”

I stare at him in the rear-view mirror, my mouth agape. Surely he wouldn’t-

His fingers move, hovering over the radio button. They pull back slightly. Then he presses it. There’s a CD in the player and I recognise it immediately. This is my CD. The car is quivering with tension and I don’t think that either of us is breathing anymore.

When he pulls up to Mitch’s house I scramble out of the truck before he’s even stopped the car. I drag my case out with me and it thuds painfully against the pavement. I wouldn’t be surprised if that registered on the Richter scale.

Tate steps out of the driver’s side and closes the door, looking down at me hesitantly. The rain runs like sweat over his skin.

“I’ll take you to… your room,” he says cautiously.

My room.

His room.

I swallow but maintain my glower, albeit blinking a bit weirdly because of the torrential downpour. “Okay.”

His eyes stray to my outfit – a severe hoodie, oversized-men’s-jeans, ball cap situation – and a pained look creases his brow before he turns to the house and unlocks the door.

Wow, I look so bad that it caused him physical pain.

When he unlocks the door he pushes it open and then steps aside so that I can enter first. A little flicker licks at the dry campfire in my stomach. I stomp it out immediately.

We both leave our shoes under the porch roof outside before heading in. Once we’re inside he says, “If you leave your hoodie in the kitchen I’ll put it in the dryer for you.”

I refuse to remove any items of clothing in front of him. “I’ll chance the pneumonia,” I respond dryly.

He stares down at me, a tense flex in his jaw. He turns to disappear into the kitchen for a moment and when he comes back out I hear the hum of the heating system. He doesn’t look at me again as he ascends to the bedroom.

My bedroom.

I know why he’s being so amenable and he damn well ought to be. I hope that he is ridden with guilt over what he put me through.

When Tate opens the bedroom door, he looks at me over his shoulder, like he’s thinking of letting me through first again. The stairwell to the attic is so narrow that pressing past him would undoubtedly result in me getting totally rolling-pinned, so he thinks better of it, chest heaving, and heads into the room.

There’s a tiny flutter in my chest when I drink in the room. It would be cramped for most people but, at my height, it’s cosy. Dark curtains, pillow cases, and quilt covers. A lamp on each side, framing the bed. The downpour outside creates a calming, repetitive thumping sound against the roof above us, and there’s beautiful bespoke wood panelling everywhere.

It’s rustic, and my little loner heart loves it.

I press my hand into the black comforter and the bed gives a little squeal.

“I’ll leave you to unpack,” Tate says in a deep, strained voice. I look over to him and he’s standing rigidly in the doorway, his hulking body stiff with discomfort. “Should I close the door?”

I turn fully around so that I’m facing him head on and I give myself three seconds to appreciate why I feel so uncomfortable around him. Tan skin flushed with the sting of the rainstorm. Chocolate brown hair now a tousled, dripping mess. His hard-earned manual-labour muscles twitching with the need to break some logs with his bare hands. Did I mention that he’s more than a foot taller than me? Because he is.

He’s standing in my damn bedroom. I’m going to be sleeping in his damn bed. He’s my mom’s boyfriend’s son.

And he was the worst thing to ever happen to me.

I flip back towards the bed so that I’m no longer facing him and I pull my sodden hoodie up over my head.

“You should definitely close the door.”