Rico rubbed my name over his brow, gaze unwavering.
I wasn’t dealing with this right now.
Tongue pushed against my cheek, I stared at the vase he’d brought my mom and focused on how pretty the hydrangeas spilling out of it were. Not the way my ex-stepbrother had moved from staring at me to leering with a cocky brow raised.
Whatever tension existed between us should have been worked out before we left his house to come here. My mother’s table was not the place to be throwing subliminals.
But since he wanted to take it there…
I cocked my head and smiled sweetly at my mother.
“Mom, I’d love to go on some dates. Make sure you tell them I love tulips and I’m allergic to shellfish.”
After helpingmy mother clear the table, I retreated to my room while Soul took care of the dishes.
Rico was downstairs talking to grandma which meant I finally had two seconds to myself to breathe.
Seated on my bed, I smiled fondly at everything still in its rightful place. Every week my mom had the cleaning lady dust in here and change the sheets. Just in case.
Yvette Donovan always held out hope that her empty nest wouldn’t remain so empty. If she stayed ready for my return, she wouldn’t have to get ready.
I got up to stand over my desk, studying the origins of my love for preserving memories.
By the time I was eighteen, I had over five scrapbooks filled to the brim of things I never wanted to forget.
For family.
For school.
For vacations.
The only difference now was that my scrapbook was digital. I poured just as much love and time into curating my social media pages as I did the scrapbooks on this desk. Granted, the posts I made were cluttered and chaotic to some, but they represented my love for telling layered stories through keepsakes and captured moments.
Leaving my desk, I turned just in time to see my bedroom door opening to reveal Rico.
He closed the door with a quiet snick and leaned against it, legs crossed at the ankle in front of him.
“We need to talk.”
I blinked at him but nodded and closed the short distance separating us.
Good. This was good. We weren’t beating around the bush. We could squash whatever had been throwing us off since yesterday and get back to what mattered—enjoying our summer together.
“Rico, if me dating this summer is going to be a problem, I can stay here with my mom.” I gulped past the lump my words had lodged in my throat.
He snorted a dry laugh, surprising me when he pulled my wrist and tugged until I was a breath away from him. This close, I could see every troubled emotion swirling in his gaze.
“You’re not dating anyone this summer, Harlow.”
I flinched, trying to back away from him. He had no say in who I dated or who I planned to fuck this summer. The same way I had no say in what he did or who he did it with.
“I already told you; I don’t need your permission. I’m not a child, Rico.”
“No, but you are my baby.”
My breath caught. I was expecting a fight. A stubborn exchange of words. Not the tender look blanketing his face or the soft lilt to his words.
The last time he called me baby had been on my twenty-first birthday, and I didn’t know how much I needed to hear him say it again.
