She’s breathing harshly, her shoulders shaking just a little, and I pause on the other side of the foyer to give her a second to compose herself. The last thing Tori ever asks for or wants is pity and if she finds out I saw her crying, she’ll make both of our lives a living hell proving how tough she is until she’s convinced I’ve completely forgotten her moment of weakness.
I study her as I wait, wondering what the hell has gotten into her. I get her deciding to come here for a few days to hide from reporters or paparazzi who are looking for pics of Alexander’s newest girl, but logic would dictate that she at least put some shoes on and change out of last night’s dress. Oh, and maybe even comb her short hair, which is currently sticking up all over her head. I can’t help wondering how a picture of her like this will translate into tomorrow’s most obnoxious headline. I’d like to think it won’t, but I’m nowhere near illogical or optimistic enough to believe that.
After she finishes tinkering with the alarm, she lets the overnight bag on her shoulder slide to the ground at her feet. All the strength seems to slip out of her with it, her whole body looking like it’s going to crumble. Part of me wants to go to her, to tell her that everything is going to be okay.
But the more I study her, the more convinced I become that sympathy is the last thing she needs right now. Which is why I back up a few steps, just far enough to make sure I’m completely out of sight. And then I start to whistle, loudly.
I give her a few seconds to compose herself before walking back into the foyer. By the time I get there, Tori’s shoulders are straight, her eyes clear, and any hint of vulnerability has been long banished, despite the fact that she has much of last night’s makeup smeared across her face.
The term hot mess comes to mind, and a skitter of uneasiness works its way down my spine. Sex tape on the loose or not, in the year that I’ve known her, I’ve never seen Tori look like this. Even as I catalog the mess, I can’t help wondering if it’s going to make her easier—or harder—to deal with.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she snarls the second she catches sight of me.
Well, that answers that. Harder, definitely. “I was just about to ask the same thing of you,” I answer, brows lifted in a deliberate attempt to annoy her.
It works. Her chin shoots straight into the air and her full lips tighten into an angry slash. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“And you didn’t answer mine. But”—I hold up a hand to stave off the temper I can see brewing in her coffee-brown eyes—“I’ll answer first, even though I think it’s fairly obvious. I live here.”
“You live here? In Ethan and Chloe’s house?”
“I do.” She looks—and sounds—like she’s waiting for more of an explanation, but I don’t give her anything else. Why should I when it’s so fun to watch the way her jaw tightens and her teeth grind together?
“Since when?”
“Since they moved up to San Francisco.”
“And Chloe knows about this?”
“She’s the one who suggested it. I’m doing extensive renovations on my place and this seemed like a perfect solution to the chaos.” I eye the bag on her shoulder. “Guess she forgot to mention that when you asked if you could stay here for a couple of days, huh?”
“I’ve got a standing invitation, so I didn’t have to ask,” she says as she drops her bag at the bottom of the stairs. “But maybe I should have. A little warning that I’d have to deal with you would have been nice.”
She breezes by me then, and doesn’t stop walking until she gets to the kitchen. Once there, she grabs a mug from the cabinet and pours herself a gigantic cup of coffee. One that leaves only the dregs in the bottom of the pot for me.
This time it’s my eyes that narrow. I don’t mind sharing the house for a few days until things calm down for her, but I’ll be damned if I share my coffee when I’ve been up half the night trying to help her. Which is why I swoop in and grab the cup as soon as she moves to get cream from the refrigerator.
I nearly scald my mouth on the first sip, but the look on her face when she turns back around is worth the pain. “That’s mine!” she exclaims, outraged.
“Really?” I ask as I take another, smaller sip. “Did you make it?”
“Seriously? That’s how you’re going to play this?”
“I never play when it comes to coffee.”
“If you knew the morning I had, you’d let me have the stupid cup of coffee.”
“If you knew the night I had, you’d let me have it.”
She glares at me for a second, but she must figure out that I’m not going to budge because in the end she just rolls her eyes as she grabs the bag of beans I haven’t yet put back in the freezer. “Fine. I’ll make my own.”
“Make sure you grind enough beans for a whole pot,” I tell her as I lean against the counter to watch her.
She shoots me a disbelieving look. “You don’t actually think I’m going to make coffee for you, do you?”
&nbs
p; “I would have made it for you, had you actually called instead of just showing up and breaking in.”