Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 102607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
She shrugs one shoulder. “What can I say? I contain multitudes. I’m emotionally complex and capable of eating the same meal five days in a row.”
I sigh blissfully and bat my eyelashes at her. “Dream girl behavior.”
Nova yawns.
“Should we get out? Get jammies on. Snuggle?”
She gazes at me as if she’s hit the jackpot. “Please.”
23
nova
Istill smell like him.
Not in an obvious, someone-will-ask-you-if-you-borrowed-their-cologne kind of way. It's more subtle than that. It's the scent of soap I don’t own and laundry detergent I’ve never bought, clinging to my skin and the inside of my hoodie.
His number clings to my back and I feel it like a brand.
I haven’t taken it off since I got home.
Kicking off my shoes by the door, the sound echoes louder than I expect. The apartment is too quiet, like always—just me and the hum of the furnace and the soft, unmistakable ache of being alone again.
I miss him.
Nothing feels normal now.
Not when my skin still remembers the warmth of his hands.
Not when his hoodie still smells like him and not when this place—my place—feels a little emptier than it did before.
I walk into the kitchen and yank open the fridge, staring at the barren shelves as if something might’ve magically appeared in the hours I was gone.
I’m not even hungry.
I just need to do something.
Keep busy.
I eyeball the carrots. Yogurt.
Condiments.
A container of pesto.
The containers of lemon chicken from the other night.
Blah!
I stare blankly at the shelves, replaying the evening before on a loop in my head: the game. Nugget. His house, the bath. The quiet way he kissed my forehead when he thought I was sleeping and the way he curled around me, a la Big Spoon.
It didn’t feel like a first sleepover.
It felt like the seventeenth. Or the seventy-seventh.
It felt easy.
I close the fridge and lean against the counter, arms crossed over my chest, sleeves tugged down to my knuckles. The cotton is soft. Worn. Familiar.
And it makes me ache.
I didn’t expect that.
My phone buzzes on the counter behind me, slicing through the memory like a butter knife through birthday cake.
I don’t look right away. Let it vibrate once. Twice.
Then I turn.
Gio is FaceTiming me.
Of course he is.
I groan quietly and answer, already bracing myself for the sibling version of an interrogation disguised as casual concern.
“Hey,” I say, trying to smooth my expression, pretending to be thrilled by his call.
“Hey yourself!” Gio greets, his face filling the screen—sweaty, slightly flushed, definitely post-workout in that fancy gym he has in his new house. “What are you up to?”
“Not much.” I certainly can’t tell him I only just walked through the door. Except my brother is perceptive, eyes scanning the front of me with hawk-like precision.
“Is that the same sweatshirt you had on last night at the game?”
I glance down at it. “Is it?” Huh. Weird.
Gio narrows his eyes. “Nova.”
“What?”
“That’s the same hoodie you had on last night.”
“Rude. Haven’t you ever heard of fashion sustainability?”
He gives me a look—the kind only a brother can deliver. Equal parts suspicion, judgment, and begrudging amusement.
“You didn’t come home last night.” It’s a statement not a question.
“That’s an assumption,” I say, tugging the hoodie sleeves over my hands self-consciously, as if I can hide.
My brother stares me down. “You ghosted after the game. Didn’t answer my text. And now here you are, looking like you just crawled home.”
“Since when is it a crime to come home and go straight to bed? I didn’t see that you texted until I woke up.”
“It’s eleven o’clock!” He looks appalled.
“Ugh—why are you shouting at me?”
“I’m not shouting,” Gio argues, absolutely shouting. “I’m concerned!”
“Concerned about what? Me wearing a hoodie two days in a row? You are not my dad. I’m fine.”
“I was worried when you didn’t text me back! Cut me some slack. Like I’m not supposed to freak out when you ghost —”
HE IS SO ANNOYING!
“For the love of God, Gio, I didn’t ghost you! I was—”
I stop myself from finishing that sentence because what am I supposed to say?
I was at your teammate’s house.
In his bed.
That I fell asleep curled into Luca Babineaux and woke up already missing him and I hadn’t even left yet.
Guilt flares white-hot in my chest. I don’t know why I feel guilty—technically, I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m a grown adult. I didn’t sign a contract that said I’d run my social life by my overprotective brother.
But it doesn’t matter.
Gio trusts me.
“I just crashed, okay?” I say, sharper than I intend. “I got home late. I was tired. I didn’t check my phone so keep it down and stop yelling.”
A blur of movement cuts into the screen and Austin enters the frame holding baby Vivi on her hip, the baby’s curls sticking out in every direction as if she’s been electrocuted by naptime.
“I’m not yelling,” Gio insists, voice still several decibels too high. “I just want to know why you’re wearing dirty clothes from last night!”