I could practically taste her hesitance in the air when she entered the room.
“I brought in some stuff that was in the car.”
Even toneless, her voice did something to me, making my skin buzz.
I tidied the papers, then stood up from the table, my eyes seeking hers like color-seeking missiles.
Indigo.
That color was definitely indigo.
She had one of my cardboard boxes in her arms, her lease papers on top, and a large duffel bag strapped across her chest.
“Where do you want this?” she asked, tapping a finger on the cardboard.
I wanted to take the box from her, to take all of her burdens, actually, but would probably end up sprawled on the floor again if I tried. First thing tomorrow, I was going to find a walking boot to wear and ditch the crutch.
“Here is good,” I said, knocking my knuckles on the kitchen table. “Delly was scoping out rooms, so maybe we should go sort out whose is whose and go from there?”
She sat the box on the table, and in a stroke of genius—and mild privacy invasion—I glanced at the page on top.
There it was, printed at the top in legible, pretty writing.
Ireland Sewell.
Ireland.
Ireland.
“Yeah?” she asked as she took the duffel off her shoulder.
“What?”
“You said my name,” she said, frowning.
“Did I?”
She gave me the unbuttered toast of looks. Blank. Dry.
“Oh, um, yeah,” I mumbled, my hand creeping to the back of my neck and squeezing nervously. I’d never break myself of my own tells. If I were my own patient, I’d diagnose myself with a case of incurable uncoolness.
Wouldn’t bat an eye at exposed bones, but would crumple like a lawn chair in a hurricane when faced with a beautiful woman.
I swiped my crutch and headed toward the living room. I guessed I’d maxed out my quota of Delly’s interventions for the day.
Or so I thought.
Just as Ireland and I came to a stop in the middle of the living room and I debated how to not awkwardly negotiate bedroom assignments with a near stranger, Delly appeared in the open doorway to the right of the living room, sunglasses perched on top of her head.
“I’ve claimed my quarters for the summer,” she announced, gesturing to the bedroom behind her.
Ireland and I met each other’s gazes but looked away just as quickly. Then, as if pulled by the same thread, we both looked over our shoulders at the two remaining rooms on the opposite side of the house.
“Delly,” I warned. “I thought I taught you better manners than that.”
My sister leaned against the doorjamb and crossed her arms. “Than what, dear brother? She isn’t—oh, shit.” My sister straightened. “I don’t know your name. I didn’t look at the contact in my phone.” Delly strode forward and grasped Ireland’s upper arms. “Please accept this hug as an apology.”
Ireland’s startled gaze met mine over Delly’s shoulder as she awkwardly patted her on the back.
