Love on the Brain by Ali Hazelwood

            “I’ll be too busy building the best damn helmet this world has ever seen and securing myself a lifetime of professional stability. Away from Trevor.”

            “Of course. And I assume The Wardass is perfectly okay pretending that—”

            A knock at my door and I glance at the time—10:28 p.m. “Gotta go. It’s probably Rocío coming to reiterate that I’m not her real mother. Or that after you die the enzymes in your digestive tract devour your body from the inside.”

            “Of all your colleagues, this girl is my absolute favorite.”

            “She was caught porking. On my desk.”

            “How does she constantly top herself?”

            I roll my eyes. “Bye, Reike.”

            “Warmest regards, Beetch.”

            It’s not Rocío. Instead, there’s a large chest where her head should be. And several inches above that, Levi’s face. “You forgot this in the rental.” He lifts his left hand, my backpack dangling from his fingers.

            “Oh. Thank you.” I hug it to the front of my body. I’m wearing a sleeveless top I’ve owned since middle school and pajama pants that could moonlight as underwear. I really thought it’d be Rocío at the door. I may be blushing all over. “Did you, um, want to come in?”

            He shakes his head. “I just wanted to return the backpack.”

            I nod. He nods. There’s a stretch of silent, more awkward nodding, and then he says, “I’ll get going.”

            “Yeah. Sure. Have a good night.”

            He’s wearing a light blue Henley that does marvelous things for his back. Which I have now touched. Extensively. That’s why I stare as he walks away: I’m mesmerized by how broad, firm, solid he looks. And that’s why when he reaches the stairs and turns around he finds me still there. Still looking.

            He smiles. And I smile. The smiles linger, warm, honest, and I hear myself ask, “You sure you don’t want to come in?”

            “It’s not that I . . .” His throat works. “I didn’t come here for that.”

            “I didn’t think you did.” I make room for him, and with a few tentative, lumbering steps he’s inside. In all his hulking, massive grace. He looks around, running a hand through his hair. Is he thinking about what happened here twenty-four hours ago? Well, more like twenty-eight point five, but which maniac is counting?

            “Is that a hummingbird feeder?” he asks.

            “Yep.”

            “Any hummingbirds?”

            “Not yet.”

            “Me neither. In my garden, I mean.”

            “I noticed the mint you’re growing.” We exchange another smile. “Want to sit on the balcony? I have fancy German beer.”

            The chairs I comfortably sprawl on look like kid’s furniture under Levi. His hand dwarfs the beer bottle. His profile, as he stares pensively at the Houston skyline, is unbearably handsome. He looks almost aggressively out of place. I want to know what he’s thinking about. I want to ask if he regrets our kiss. I want to touch him again.

            “I’m sorry about the other night. And about missing work when we’re at a critical point. It was an emergency.”

            Oh. “Was it . . . was it something about your non-wife? From the photo?”

            He chuckles. “I can’t believe the conversation material that picture’s giving us.”

            “Amazing, huh?”

            His smile fades. “Penny’s ill. Epilepsy. It’s under control, but she’s growing up fast and her meds need to be adjusted often. It’s tricky, finding the right dosage.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            “It’s okay. Weirdly enough, Penny takes it in stride. She’s a remarkably resourceful kid.” He takes a swig and makes a face at the beer. What a heathen. “Lily, though—her mom—she struggles. Understandably. I try to be around when things get bad.”