“Tiernan, it’s Jake,” I say in a low voice.
Her smell hits me, and I pause.
It smells like…
Like skin, wet from the rain. Déjà vu suddenly washes over me, and I inhale deeper. Skin with the faintest hint of fragrance. Like that soft, hidden place behind a woman’s ear that smells like her but also a little of her perfume and shampoo and sweat.
And suddenly I can taste it. It used to be my favorite place to kiss her.
God, I’d forgotten.
I clear my throat, straightening my spine. “Tiernan,” I call, but it comes out as a bark. Not sure why I’m aggravated now.
I take a step into the room, but as the bed comes into view, I see it’s already made, and she’s definitely not in it. My heart skips a beat, and I open the door wide, looking around her bedroom.
She wouldn’t have left…
The lights are off, but the dim morning light pours through her balcony doors, and I see the room is just as neat as when she arrived, although a few things have been moved. Her personal items sit on the top of her desk and her dresser, and I see a pair of flip flops by the bed stand.
Okay, she didn’t leave, then. Not sure how she could anyway—remote as we are—but I wouldn’t put it past her to try.
Leaving the room, I close the door behind me and give Noah’s door two hard pounds as I pass by and head down the stairs. He needs to get his ass up, too, and the fact that I still need to be my twenty-year-old kid’s alarm clock is ridiculous.
As soon as I hit the living room, though, I smell coffee and know I’m not the only one up. Tiernan works at something on the table, and I glance over, trying to see what she’s doing as I walk to the coffee pot.
Her hair is piled into a messy bun on the top of her head as she appears to glue pieces of something together.
I pour a cup of coffee, swallowing hard. “Thank you for fixing the fridge,” I say, not looking at her.
I felt like an ass yesterday when Noah told me that everything in the fridge was out of its usual order because she had to empty it to fix it.
A huge ass.
And after the surprise wore off, I was impressed. So much of the world simply replaces broken things or hires out to have it fixed, not wanting to trouble themselves to learn things on their own. Even with the plethora of help there is on the Internet.
She’s self-sufficient.
When she still hasn’t responded, I turn around, taking a drink from my mug as I slowly approach.
She pieces together a plate that appears to have broken, gluing each piece carefully together.
It’s one of our green ones. The corner of my mouth turns up in a small smile.
She really didn’t have to bother. It’s a cheap plate, and they’re easy to break.
I shoot my eyes up to her face again—her gaze focused, lips closed, and her breathing even and controlled like I’m not standing right here.
“Tiernan?” I say again.
But she still doesn’t respond. Jesus, it’s like talking to my kids. Are all teenagers like this?
Putting the last piece in place, she holds it for a few moments and then takes a paper towel to clean up any bubbled glue.
“Is there anything I can help with today?” she suddenly asks, finally glancing up at me.
Huh?
She looks up at me, stray strands of hair falling around her face and in her eyes, and again, I’m taken off guard. I’d braced myself for a confrontation after the way I’d acted yesterday, but… she’s ready to move on. Should I push a conversation or let it alone?