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Chapter 8

Waking up to the sound of clanking pots and pans accompanied by Wood's stellar rendition of "Shake it Off" by Taylor Swift in the kitchen hits different when you've had less than three hours of sleep. It's okay. Less time with my bad dreams.

I trudge downstairs from the loft where I slept—or tried to—last night.

Wood's got eggs scrambling and bacon frying. Coffee is brewing. It looks like he ordered an entire bakery with the assortment of pastries, donuts, muffins, and bagels in baskets around the kitchen. There's also a large bowl of fruit on the table that wasn't there last night.

Oblivious, he flits around, shaking his hips and bobbing his head, a kitchen towel thrown over his shoulder. He gets out a large mixing bowl and whisk, then starts digging to the back of one of the cabinets.

"What are you making now?" I ask.

There's a low thud and then an "ow" from inside the cabinet. Wood steps back, rubbing the back of his head with one hand and holding a waffle iron in the other. "Livvy requested waffles," he says with a smile.

Macy bursts out of the hall bathroom, still in her clothes from last night, messy bun, permanent creases in her forehead as she looks around for something. Wood practically leaps over the island to get to her, a full plate of food in one hand, a basket of pastries in the other.

"Breakfast? I wasn't sure what you'd want, so I kind of got everything."

She barely looks at him. "No, I'll just grab some coffee." She looks down at her phone. "I'm going to be late. Has anyone seen my purse?"

"Your purse is by the front door," Wood says, somehow already at the coffee pot pouring some into a travel mug.

He intercepts her on the way to the door and hands her the mug, which she takes with stunned silence.

"You really do need to eat," Wood says in a stern tone I've never heard from him.

She sighs, checking her phone again. "Okay, yeah, you're right. Um—" Somehow that little crease in her forehead gets deeper. "I need to go check my levels and stuff." She retreats back to the bathroom. When she returns a few minutes later, she takes an apple and a couple slices of bacon.

"I could give you a ride—if you want," Wood offers.

"No, I'm fine," Macy says as she slings her purse over her shoulder and swings open the door. "I'm just glad I have an extra pair of scrubs at the hospital."

He slinks back to the kitchen after she leaves.

"Give it up, brother. I think she's the only girl on the planet immune to your charms. Plus, she's got a boyfriend."

Wood pours flour into the mixing bowl, a white cloud of flour billowing over onto the countertop. "I'm well aware," he says.

I steal a slice of bacon from the paper towel-lined plate while he cracks an egg open and separates the yolk and the white into two bowls. By the second egg, he's already humming Taylor Swift again. Mid chorus he sing-songs, "Morning, girl!" then goes right back to singing and whisking.

I glance over my shoulder to where Livvy is walking out.

Her brown hair is messy around her face, golden in the sunlight pouring in from the windows behind her.

"Morning," she says with a yawn and sleepy smile.

She's wearing my T-shirt and gray sweatpants. They hang off her hips, way too long and baggy. She looks adorable in my clothes.

Mine.

I don't know where that intrusive thought came from. Some feral, primitive part of my brain thinks seeing her in my clothes means she's mine.

I know she's not.

"How'd you sleep?" I ask.

"Good." She smooths a wild lock of hair behind her ear, her cheeks rosy, and comes to sit at the bar stool next to me. "How about you?"

I got very little sleep, as usual. Didn't fall until almost three and then was woken up by Bex getting in late and spent most of the rest of the night fitfully tossing and turning, in and out of the same old nightmares, finally falling back asleep around five only to be woken by Mr. Morning Wood himself at six forty-five.

"Good," I say.

"Your Belgian waffle is coming right up," Wood says, scooping batter into the hot iron.

"What about my waffle?" I ask.

He points the measuring cup at me, a drop of batter hitting the counter. "I am not your mother. I'll make it next." He looks back to Livvy. "I didn't know what you like on your waffle, I have fresh strawberries, bananas, maple syrup, blueberry syrup, and whipped cream. Oh shoot, I didn't even think about chocolate chips! Do you want chocolate chips? We might have some chocolate chips. Hold on, let me look."

"It's fine, it's fine." Livvy laughs. "Strawberries and whipped cream is perfect. But really, I wasn't expecting all this. You didn't have to go to all this trouble."

Wood waves her off. "It was no trouble. Coffee? Tea? Juice? I can squeeze some oranges."

"Coffee will be great, thank you."

"I'll get it for you." I stand before Wood can beat me to it.

He's handing her a plate with a steaming waffle, eggs, and bacon when I get back with her cup of coffee.

"Thanks," she says, looking between the both of us.

She covers her waffle with strawberries and then whipped cream. A lot of whipped cream. Then, when she thinks I'm not looking, she squirts the whipped cream into her coffee cup creating a steep mound, overflowing the mug.

"Oh my god, Wood, these are so good," she says, after her first bite, licking some whipped cream off her lower lip.

"Thanks. It's our grandma's recipe. The secret is lots of melted butter and beating the egg whites separately."

I get my waffle and cover it in butter and syrup. We eat and Wood serenades us, "Dancing Queen" by Abba this time, while he makes more waffles, bobs around the kitchen, puts dishes in the sink and eats bacon.

"How does your side feel this morning? Better?" I ask.

"I don't know. How does it look?" Livvy turns her side toward me and lifts her shirt up to her ribs.

Worse. It looks so much worse. Last night it was red and swollen, just starting to purple. Today it's doubled in size, black and blue, purple and green around the edges.

Fuck.

"Is it that bad?" She's looking at my face, a worry line between her brows. She twists to see for herself and her eyes go big. "Oh."

"Dude, that's gnarly looking," Wood says, forgetting what he's doing and overflowing the waffle iron with batter.

Livvy grimaces and I reach over and pull her shirt back down. I don't like Wood's eyes on her.

"How'd that happen?" he asks.

My chest tightens. "It was my fault," I say through gritted teeth.

"It was an accident," Livvy insists, touching my arm softly.

"You don't have to go to work today. You should stay home and rest."

She waves me off. "I'm fine. Really. It's nothing that would keep me from working. As long as I don't get banged into any more walls."

Wood side-eyes me as he takes a huge bite of waffle. I roll my eyes.

At work, I make sure to check on her regularly to see if she needs any extra breaks. She insists she's fine.

But what if it's more than a bruise? What if something's broken? I'd never forgive myself.

I'm probably being too protective. But her injury is my fault. She's staying at my place. She's sleeping in my bed. How could I not be? How could I not do everything and anything to make sure she's okay?

I can hardly concentrate when I'm in the middle of the back piece I'm doing. I keep looking toward the front desk, expecting to see her grabbing her side, her face twisted in pain. But she looks fine. She's smiling, even.

Smiling too much. At Anthony. He keeps going up there. It seems every chance and break he has he's using it to chat her up, leaning over the desk, showing her his half sleeve, laughing too loud, getting too close.

I resist the urge to growl at him to get back to work.

I'm having to resist more and more urges these days.

Over the next week, Livvy and I get into a nice rhythm of living and working together. We hang out with Wood in the mornings and go to work after lunch. If she's noticed that I've made sure all our days on and off are the same, she hasn't said anything.

Sometimes we'll go take our breaks together at the little coffee shop next door to the shop.

I get us takeout for dinner, and we eat it together in my office. My desk turns into a mess of boxes and bags and napkins and sauce packets, and she always wants to try "a bite" of whatever I have, and I watch her take three.

Livvy doesn't strike me as shy, but she's…quiet—around me, at least. She doesn't seem to be around Anthony or Wood. Maybe it's me. Maybe I'm intimidating. Maybe it's because I'm technically her boss now. Maybe it's because I knew her when she was a tween going through her awkward stage.

I don't know why, but I want her to open up to me.

She loves to talk about art. So we talk about art. I've been studying up on it at night, while I'm up in the loft while everyone else is sleeping. I'm learning about Dali and Degas at four in the morning. I can't really explain why, but I want to know what she's talking about when she references their works, see what she's seeing.

It's late when we get off work. Wood's usually out on a date, sometimes he's home, uh, entertaining that date. Bex is in and out. She works late and sleeps during the day plus has an active social life. I hardly even see her. I spend more time with Livvy than I have with anyone else in a long time.

Thursday night, she's officially been living here a week, but it feels like she's been with us longer. I was going to ask her if she wanted to hang out on our night off. Maybe go walk somewhere to get food or go down to the bar for a bit or maybe just hang out here and see if there's a good movie to stream or she can put on that ridiculous reality dating show she likes to watch, and we can order food in.

But as I'm sipping on a beer in the kitchen, scrolling through my latest messages with Angel, Livvy walks out, Wood on her heels, and she's all dressed up.

She looks so goddamn pretty.

"I'm glad we went with the open-toed shoes instead of the pumps, aren't you?" Wood asks.

She lets out a high laugh. "Yes, you have excellent taste."

He smiles his lopsided smile. Wood holds his hand up for a high five. She returns it and then they do this little handshake-back-clap-fist-bump-exploding thing. Interesting.

And just as they finish this new handshake ritual they've developed, she glances my way.

"What's going on?" I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Oh, I thought I mentioned it." She smiles, but her eyes are shifty. "I have a date tonight."

She definitely did not mention it. I grunt. "With Mark again?"

"Um, no. Not Mark." She bites her lip.

The door buzzes.

I stay in the kitchen nursing my beer as she heads for the door. Little purse over her shoulder. A short cream dress that shows off her legs. And lipstick—she's wearing bright red lipstick and I know her date is going to be staring at her mouth all night. And she'll be smiling and laughing and touching his arm and?—

I take a sip of my beer, the glass bottle cold against my lips.

My stomach is in knots.

I'm not prepared for those knots to turn to a red-hot ball of inexplicable fury when she opens the front door to my apartment and Anthony is standing on the other side.

"Hey, gorgeous," he says, looking her up and down. Too slowly, too appreciatively.

I stand, and clear my throat, almost knocking over my beer. "Livvy, can I talk to you real quick, before you leave?"

She turns, hand still on the doorknob, brows furrowed. "Okay. I'll be right back," she says to Anthony, smiling.

I jerk my chin to the right and walk to my room where she follows.

She's between me and the door when I shut it, my arm over her head. Her eyes are greener than normal as she looks up at me.

"Anthony? You're going out with Anthony? Really?"

"Yes. He seems nice and he asked me out. What's wrong with that?"

"First of all, you work together. That always gets messy. And, I don't know, he dates around a lot?—"

"Is that a crime?" She narrows a glare at me.

"No, I guess not. But you're also still injured."

"I'm fine. What kind of physical activity do you think we're going to be doing on a first date? Rock climbing?"

I wasn't thinking about rock climbing. Why was I thinking about her not rockclimbing with Anthony? I don't know. It's not like I'm jealous of him.

I don't say anything for a beat.

Her cheeks deepen to a dark crimson. "Oh." she says suddenly. "That's none of your business or concern, Noah."

Fuck. "You're right."

I'm breathing rapidly. I'm standing too close. I can smell her perfume mixed with the strawberry scent of her hair.

"Obviously." She crosses her arms and quirks an eyebrow.

"Also, he's so loud and you're so… you're so?—"

"I'm so what?" She doesn't break eye contact. She's even more adorable when she scowls. And it draws attention to her pouty red lips…

I drag my gaze back up from her mouth. "You're so…" Shit. "Quiet and reserved. It just doesn't make sense, you two."

"Well, it's a good thing it doesn't need to make sense to you, then." She twists the knob behind her, and I almost stumble when she opens the door I've been leaning on. "Good night, Noah. Don't wait up for me."

I'm not waiting up for her.

I'm not.

I'm simply up in the loft at one in the morning taking notes on the difference between Monet and Manet. And, no, I didn't know there was a contemporary of Monet named Manet who was also a French impressionist painter until fifteen minutes ago, either.

Keys rattle in the door downstairs, and then it opens with the sounds of laughter.

Bex is at work, and it's too early for her, anyway. It could be Wood coming home with his date. But I already know—I know that laugh is Livvy's.

I start down the steps to, I don't know, greet her? See if she's still mad at me? To say sorry?

But they're there, standing in front of the door, arms wrapped around each other. He's kissing her. And she's kissing him back. More than a peck. More than a simple good night kiss. It's a probably-leading-to-more kiss.

It's a they-don't-want-me-around kiss.

I don't want to be around for it, either.

So, I turn to go back up to the loft to give them privacy.

But then Livvy lets out a low grunt and says, "Ow. That hurts."

Black seeps in around the edges of my vision and I'm crossing the apartment toward them. I don't even recall going down the steps.

In an instant I'm between them, pushing Anthony away and keeping Livvy at my back.

I yank at his shirt and pull him up to my face.

Pulse pounding. Blood red hot in my veins.

Fist shaking.

I can barely think.

Barely talk.

Anthony looks up at me in shock.

I look him dead in the eye. "I don't care if you are my friend. You hurt her—I will end you."

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