Seven Years

“I missed you, Ladybug,” he murmured in my hair.

Chapter 7

In the span of a rinse and spin cycle, I’d managed to get Austin caught up on seven years’ worth of gossip. Who was married, who was divorced, who was gay, who had five children, who lost all their money on a gambling trip, and who was arrested for public indecency in a museum. Austin’s eyes were brimming with amusement; I always had an animated way of telling a good story.

We slid into our groove just a little bit more, although in many ways, Austin still felt like a stranger to me.

I offered him one of my warm T-shirts to put on, fresh from the dryer, but he smirked and held it up to his broad chest. Unless I wanted the stretched-out version, Austin was going shirtless.

Not that I had any complaints.

“I’ll follow you,” he said, slamming my trunk closed and walking back to his car. We agreed to head over to my place and he’d tell it all. My stomach twisted into a knot because I wasn’t sure I was ready for the truth—not after what he’d already told me.

I wrote down my address in case we were separated in traffic, and to be honest, I was trying to lose him. I needed at least five minutes to run a comb through my hair and look halfway decent.

As soon as we arrived, I ran up the stairs and left my trunk open for him to haul up the laundry. Halfway through the living room, flip-flops were flying left and right as I kicked them off and hauled ass into my bedroom, yanking a pair of denims from a dresser drawer and changing into them. I stripped away my tank top and pulled a form-fitting brown shirt with retro lettering over my head. Austin’s heavy footsteps tromped up the stairs.

“Shit,” I muttered, dashing into the bathroom. The door slammed and I sprayed myself with cucumber body freshener. The heat had done a number on my face, so I brightened it up with a dab of tinted lotion and mineral powder, then rummaged through my drawer twice until I found my favorite tube of lipstick. Nothing dramatic, just enough color that I didn’t look like a hot mess.

“Lexi? Where do you want me to put these?” he yelled out.

“Hi, there. I’m afraid we haven’t had the pleasure. I’m Naya James.”

I tossed my lipstick on the counter. “Well, so much for that,” I murmured.

Now that Naya was in the mix, there was no point in—wait, what was I even doing? Once again, reverting to my sixteen-year-old self and trying to hit on my brother’s best friend. That’s what.

If Naya wants him, she can have him.

I swung the door open and they were standing in the middle of my living room. Austin held a heavy bag under each arm as if they weighed nothing. Naya had on her favorite black heels with ribbons tied around her ankles several times. All you saw were legs that went up to a pair of tight black shorts. Her red blouse was a favorite—the shredded material looked like a yeti had tried to make out with her.

“Naya, this is Austin Cole. He’s an old friend who just got back in town and we’re doing some catching up. Austin, this is Naya, my good friend and neighbor. She also makes some really kickass baklava.”

“Yes,” Naya confessed, “I love to cook. Do you love to eat?” she asked, sliding a glance my way. “I think we should have him for dinner tonight. You two can talk and that’ll give me plenty of time to whip up something delicious. I know just the thing a man like you needs.”

Naya had her kitten motor on purr. Men responded to it without a doubt. She was testing the waters to see if I’d react, which I didn’t, thus giving her full permission to pursue. We had an unspoken agreement about that kind of thing.

Austin’s eyes were fixated on my shirt. “Are they still around?”

For a second, I thought he was talking about my breasts and I looked down to see if I still had them. Then I noticed the logo on my shirt.

“Yeah, believe it or not, they’re still in business.”

A nostalgic grin slid up his face.

The Pit was the best barbecue joint in town. At one time, it was a popular hangout for the teens. I’d go with my friends, or sometimes tag along with Wes. Their food was great, and it had become a place where we congregated to talk about school, guys, concerts, and stuff that didn’t matter. So many memories were tied to that place and I hadn’t gone back in all these years. We used to tear the ends of the straws and blow the long wrappers across the room. The owner must have hated us.

“Let me take those,” I said, reaching for one of the bundles of laundry.

He swung away. “I got it. Where do you want them?”

I wrapped my arm around a large bag and he swiveled away. “You act like I don’t know how to handle something that big, Austin. Just give it to me!”

“Now that’s what I like to hear,” Naya said with a wink, and the door closed behind her.

“Your bedroom or right here?”

His question startled me and I let go. Austin paced into my messy bedroom with the laundry. “I’m not folding your clothes,” he said with a chuckle. He dropped the bags on the floor beside the closet and glanced around with inquisitive eyes.

He was curious about my life. I saw it in the subtle way he scoped everything out, from the pictures on my walls to the comedy movies on my shelves.

“Why don’t I get us a drink,” I offered, disappearing into the kitchen. I could see him over the bar and he was looking at the back door that led to my balcony. “You want a beer? I don’t have your favorite, or at least, what you used to like.”

“Sounds good.”

This conversion was going to require more than a beer. It was too early in the day to get lit, so I pulled out two bottles and set them on the rectangular table in my quaint little dining room.

Austin had his back to me, still shirtless.

I quickly dove into the bedroom and fished out one of Beckett’s shirts from a bottom drawer. There was no way I was going to be able to carry on a conversation while staring at his six-pack.

“Here,” I said, tossing him the shirt.

He caught it and sharpened his eyes. “Whose shirt is this?”

“My ex’s.”

His fists tightened around the red material but his voice stayed smooth and relaxed. “How much of an ex is he?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

He lifted the shirt. “You’re still keeping around a spare set of his clothes. You tell me.”

I sat down and took a swig of beer. “He had sex in my car with another woman. I’m not a forgive-and-forget kind of girl. I just forgot I still had it in there.”

“You just said you didn’t forget.”

I turned my mouth to the side and drummed my fingers on the bottle. “I can forget a T-shirt pretty easily. I can’t forget my ex getting ridden like a mechanical bull in the back of my Toyota.”

Austin suddenly ripped the shirt in half and the sound of the material tearing made me jump.

He calmly walked into the kitchen, dropped the shirt into the trash can, and returned to his seat across the table. Then he casually drank his beer as if nothing weird had just transpired with him going Hulk and shredding my former lover’s favorite “I’m an idiot” shirt.

The bubbles in my empty stomach were already working their alcoholic magic. “So tell me what happened to Wes. Don’t dance around the truth, Austin. I’ve invited you here and I want you to be straight with me.”

Austin sipped his beer and grimaced, setting the bottle in the middle of the table.

“I’m a Shifter,” he said.

“Shifter,” I repeated blandly. “You move around? What does that mean?”