Storm. Brigid Kemmerer
flung it, really. She was dripping on his kitchen tiles, and he tossed it from the doorway.
“Let me change my shirt,” he said. “You want me to get you something?”
She stared at him for a second, wondering whether he meant food or something to wear. When she realized her mouth was working but nothing was coming out, she quickly shook her head.
Then she was alone, long enough that she finally dropped into a chair and shivered. No woman lived in this house; she could tell that just from the kitchen. The paper towel holder sat empty and a stack of dishes hid in the sink. A pot of coffee had been made at some point, left to cool in the carafe long ago. But the counters appeared mostly clean, simple granite that still had a shine and didn’t sport any spilled food. No curtains hung over the windows by the sink, no soft hand towels hung on the oven.
Becca’s mom rarely had a chance to cook, but her kitchen was a place of warmth, with fresh fruit always spilling out of a bowl on the counter, a snack drawer that never went empty, and a feeling of welcome that never went cold.
This kitchen should have been nice, with a set of French doors leading out to a back porch and enough space for a large table and a cooking island. But the lack of family touches left it feeling institutional.
She gave her hair a cursory squeeze with the towel. She’d never been one of those girls who looked sexy with wet hair. Her dark strands weighed heavy on her neck, clumped and tangled from the water. She finger combed them away from her face, knowing it would leave her cheeks stark and pale, making her gray eyes appear huge. She zipped her damp sweatshirt all the way up, though it seemed to seal the cold to her body. Sitting in a house full of boys in a wet tee shirt didn’t seem the best way to uphold her reputation.
Reputation. Ha.
The front door slammed, followed by heavy, clomping footsteps in the hallway. She sat up straighter, rolling the towel into a ball in her lap. Would this be a real adult, someone older and more authoritative than Michael? Nick wasn’t back yet, and she had no idea how to explain her presence.
Those footsteps came all the way to the kitchen. No adult. Just a flash of déjà vu: Nick’s twin.
Since they were identical, he was every inch the looker his brother was. But Gabriel was filthy, his hair wet and disheveled, a streak of dirt across one cheek. His wet hoodie had seen better days, and his shorts fared little better. Old Mill High’s colors of bright red and blue tried to peek through grass stains and mud, but it was a losing battle. He wore shin guards and cleats, and he’d tracked dirt and bits of grass into the kitchen.
Her mother would have had a fit.
Becca opened her mouth to explain herself, expecting him to be surprised, to introduce himself, to ask what she was doing there.
She’d have settled for his acknowledging her presence.
He barely glanced at her on his way to the refrigerator. She watched him pull a jug of red Gatorade off the shelf and drink half of it while he surveyed the rest of the refrigerator contents.
“Hi,” she said, just in case there was any way he’d missed the living, breathing female sitting in full view of the doorway.
He didn’t turn. “ ’Sup.” Then he swung the refrigerator door closed, slapping the Gatorade bottle on the counter while he riffled through cabinets. He must have been satisfied when he came up with a package of chocolate chip cookies, because he grabbed his drink and dropped into the chair across from her.
He smelled like grass and dirt and sweat, and he looked so much like Nick that she had to stop herself from staring.
He ripped open the package and pulled three out for himself, then shoved the cookies toward the middle of the table. “Want some?”
“I’m good. Thanks.” She had to clear her throat to state the obvious. “You’re ... ah ... probably wondering what I’m doing here.”
“Nah.” He took a swig of Gatorade, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Finding a girl in the kitchen isn’t exactly an oddity around here.”
“Charming.”
He glanced up at that, a glint of wicked humor in his eye. “I’m sure you’re special, though.”
It should have pissed her off, after Michael’s brusque attitude and Nick’s hey-baby-why-don’t-you-come-inside. But Gabriel’s teasing was straightforward, challenging, in a way. He expected her to girl it up, to huff and fold her arms. She could tell.
“Not special at all.” She changed her mind and leaned in to take a cookie. “I just heard my number called and thought I’d better show up.”
He grinned. “No way you’re here for Nicky.”
Was that an insult? She frowned. “No. I brought Chris home.”
“Shouldn’t that be the other way around?” He pulled a fourth cookie from the pack.
She shook her head and opened her mouth to explain, but his eyes narrowed, his gaze turning more appraising. “Wait. I know you from somewhere.”
Probably, if he was on the soccer team. Drew McKay was the team captain, and thanks to Drew and his friends, she’d been the subject of locker room speculation since school started a few weeks ago.
She took another cookie. “Great detective work, Sherlock. We go to the same school.”
He made a dismissive gesture. “That’s not it. What’s your name?”
Of course he wouldn’t know. She got a quick flash of how this would go.
Becca, she’d say. Becca Chandler.
His sharp eyes would darken in recognition, and that smile would turn into a smirk, and she’d spend three minutes listening to idle commentary about her supposed talents.
Maybe not three minutes. She’d gotten better at walking away.
“Becca,” she said. Then, knowing boys rarely gave up a chance to talk about themselves, she quickly added, “You play soccer?”
He nodded and took another swig of Gatorade. “Well, technically, Nick does. You’re not allowed to play on more than two varsity teams per year.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You pretend to be your brother? And no one has a problem with that?”
“Who would have a problem with it?”
The principal. The school board. The team. She stared at him. “Do people know you do it?”
“Maybe.” He shrugged. “Who could prove it?”
“Me.” Nick came through the doorway, wearing dry jeans and a black tee shirt. He pulled out the chair beside his twin and slid into it.
“You don’t care.” Gabriel didn’t glance at him, just slid the cookies over. Nick pulled out three.
She wanted to ask how Chris was, but she didn’t know him that well and asking felt awkward. She fidgeted with the wet sleeve of her sweatshirt.
Nick was watching her. “Chris is pretty banged up.” He paused. “Thanks for bringing him home.”
Gabriel turned. “What happened to Chris?”
Nick nodded her way. “Ask her.”
Becca pushed wet hair behind her ear. “I only caught the tail end of it. Some guys were beating the crap out of him.”
Gabriel’s anger flared like a flame on a match. That easy smile vanished and he came halfway out of his chair. “Some guys were beating the crap out of Chris? Who? Where?”
His vehemence took her by surprise, and it took her a second to get it together. Becca was glad to have an answer to give him. “Ah ... behind the gym. Seth Ramsey was one of them. The other one doesn’t go to our school, but Chris said he used to. I think his name was Tyler.”