I’m shrugging it off as I fit my key in the door. Every light in the house is on, a clear sign that Evy’s home and wandering around like a lost soul. I need to pull it together.
“Brighton!” Evy pounces, ripping the door handle from my hand.
“Hey! Welcome home.” I offer a hug, and she flits in and out of my grasp. She’s effortlessly stylish in black linen shorts and a printed red shirt. It’s the type of shirt I wouldn’t look at twice—too busy and bright—but it hugs her skin, drawing attention to her waist and making the most of her chest. Her dark curls are twisted into a careless knot and anchored with a swizzle stick. The outfit probably took her ten seconds to throw together and makes me self-conscious about the hour and a half it took me to get ready for school—and the fact that I don’t, and never have, measured up to Evy in interest factor.
“Yeah, thanks and all that. Want to help me unpack?” she asks.
This will translate into me unpacking and organizing while she sits on her bed and tells me stories about all her college friends and college adventures. It’s our typical routine, and I’m about to agree when her eyes light up. “Or maybe you have other plans. Who’s the guy? Hey, handsome.”
I look to see what she’s grinning at: Jonah’s standing in the still-open doorway.
“Hi,” I say. It takes all of my effort to keep my feet planted on the foyer’s Oriental carpet instead of fleeing up the stairs. Looking directly at him is out of the question; I aim my gaze over his left shoulder at his car parked halfway down the driveway.
“You forgot your cell.”
Jonah hands it over and is gone before I even manage, “Oh, thanks.”
I stare at the back of our front door until Evy puts a hand on my shoulder and spins me around to face her amused grin. “Wait. Wait. Wait! I thought you were babysitting—who was the guy? Did my little sister finally learn to lie to Mom? I’m so proud. And, nice choice: he sizzles!”
“What? No. That’s the couple’s son.”
“And did you tuck him into bed and read him a story?” She raises her eyebrows and pulls her lips into a scandalized smirk.
“The older brother of the baby I was watching.” Why did I inherit all of the insta-blush genes in our family? “It’s nothing like that. He doesn’t like me at all. Wasn’t that obvious?”
She winks and nudges me with an elbow. “Sounds like grade-school flirting. Next he’ll be pulling your hair and calling you dorkhead and cootie-face.”
“Ha. Not likely.” I grab one of her suitcases from the foyer floor and trudge toward the stairs. “What do you have in here? It weighs a ton.”
“Shoes.” There’s another knock on the door. “See, this is when the hair pulling begins,” Evy says as she reaches around me for the knob. “I knew he couldn’t resist my little sister.”
She pulls the door open with a flourish so I’m face-to-face with a scowl. I drop the suitcase, flinching at its thud. “Did I forget something else?”
“I locked my keys in the car.” His scowl deepens.
“Accidentally?” Evy asks, laughing.
His eyes drift past me and land on my sister. She’s assumed an audience position, leaning against the green wall of the hallway. I’m sure all he sees are her chest and long, tanned legs crossed at the ankles.
“I wouldn’t have spent the past two minutes cursing at the car door if it was on purpose.” But he says this with a smile. She gets a smile. “I’m Jonah.”
“Evy. Smart idea not to curse in front of The Innocent. It makes her so damn huffy.”
“It does not!”
They share a look like they’re on some exclusive team. I hate feeling like an outsider.
“I’ll drive you home to get a spare key,” I offer.
“I’m blocking you in. My phone’s in the car; can I use yours? I’ll call AAA and be out of here.”
“Sure,” I answer.
Evy points to the cell in my hand. “Genius, if you’d figured it out sooner, you could’ve saved yourself a trip to return hers.”
I hand it over with an apologetic look. “Don’t be mean. He was probably busy worr—”
“Busy being a moron and locking my keys in the car.” He fishes a AAA card out of his wallet and turns to face the door while he dials.
I stand watching until Evy hooks her fingers in the back of my collar and drags me backward into the kitchen.
“Let go of me!” She does, and I stumble until my hip hits the counter. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Wrong with me? What’s up with the Miss America act, B?” She assumes a pose that’s straight up and down, feet at a forty-five-degree angle, fluttering lashes, and head tilt.
“I did not stand like that!”
“You did! And you’re broadcasting puppy-dog affection on every channel. Back off a bit, B, make him work for it.”
“I do not like Jonah Prentiss,” I hiss in a whisper. “And I do not need guy advice.”