“Hey, Pix,” he said sadly as she reached for the handle. “I’m pretty sure I know the answer, but you’ve taken care of me, twice. We’ve kissed, twice. You’ve been alone with me in my room, twice. When are you going to go out with me?”
She turned toward him, her face unreadable. It was the last time he was going to ask, or at least it was the last time he’d get to ask her for a while. He was as committed to Preload as he had been the day Maisey put that crappy guitar in his hand, despite Sam’s accusations. But the idea of Pixie walking out of the door, and him getting on a flight in the morning burned. So he waited for the smart-aleck response, braced for the no.
“When you’re feeling better,” she said with a shy smile that made his fucking year.
Chapter Four
She could hear hammering at the door. The police must have found her. Blood ran down the underside of her wrist, hitting the brown shag carpet. Pixie panicked. It wasn’t her fault. He’d hurt her and the fishing knife he’d used earlier to gut fish was within reach.
The loud knocking sounded again. “Pix, I know you’re in there.”
They’d come for her, and she was going to go to prison for a long time.
“Pix.” The voice grew louder. And the police were calling her Pix, not Sarah-Jane.
She sat up in bed with a jolt. Drenched in sweat, she looked at the clock. It was ten in the morning. She coughed hard. Three hours sleep was not enough to function, but her nose was so congested, she couldn’t breathe lying down.
She pushed her hair off her face and grabbed the bottle of water from the bedside table. Her hands shook as she fumbled with the cap.
Someone hammered on the door. For real this time.
“Pix. Open up.” Dred was outside the condo.
The mirror was brutally unforgiving. Bed-shaped hair and an oversized T-shirt were so far away from sexy it was tragic.
Pixie hurried to the door and peered through the peephole. Oh God. He was standing there in dark jeans and a black T-shirt that highlighted his pecs. The anchor he wore was visible. In his hands were the most spectacular dark flowers she’d ever seen.
“I saw the peephole go dark, gorgeous,” he growled, his voice still rough. “You going to let me in, or make me stand out in the hallway like an idiot?”
Pixie opened the door. “Come in,” she said hoarsely.
“Oh no, Pix.” Dred placed the flowers and a small bag down and put his hands on her shoulders. “I gave you this, didn’t I?”
She let go of the door. It was hard to deny the obvious. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” Seeing him chased the frigid edges of the nightmare away.
“No, it’s not fine. I showed up at the studio to give you these.” He tilted his head in the direction of the flowers. “But Lia told me you had a crap night.”
Seeing him like this in her home made the last few days seem very real. Kissing Dred at the concert was fantastical, a sublime moment in the otherwise mundane existence she’d deliberately built for herself. Now it was just plain surreal. He was so big he filled the hallway, yet she felt safe.
“I was asleep when you knocked. Can I get you something?”
“Are you kidding me? No. Come, sit, and show me where everything is so I can make you something. Here”—he grabbed the flowers and the bag—“these are for you.”
Pixie tried to smell the flowers, but couldn’t. “I’m sure they smell great,” she said with a sniff.
She led him to the kitchen, picking up a vase from the living room on the way.
“I love your place,” Dred said looking around.
“It’s Lia’s. I rent a room here.”
He pulled out a stool at the counter. “Sit. Scissors, where are they?”
“Top drawer.” She nodded across the kitchen. He retrieved them and took the vase, filling it with water, before he placed it and the scissors in front of her.
“I can whistle up a scramblette.” Dred opened the fridge.
“A scramblette?” Pixie started to cut the ends of the flowers and placed them into the vase.
“Oh, sorry,” he said, closing the door to look at her again. “Back in the home, I used to try to make omelettes, but somewhere along the way, I always fucked it up. The guys used to call it a scramblette, and it stuck.”
Despite how shitty she felt, Pixie laughed. “A scramblette sounds perfect.”
They worked alongside each other. Pixie cut all the long stems and arranged the flowers in the vase and bit back a smile as Dred desecrated the kitchen.
“What’s in the bag?” she asked.
Dred turned to face her, wooden spoon in hand. Perhaps it was the way his stark head-to-toe black made a shocking contrast to the pale green kitchen counters and black-and-white checkerboard tiled floor, or maybe it was the way he dwarfed the pink and chrome table and chairs, but Pixie let out a laugh.
“What?” Dred asked, confusion marking his features.
“This,” Pixie spluttered, waving her hand between the two of them. “It’s a bit . . .”
Dred smiled at her, flipped the gas off, and paced toward her. “A bit what?”