Reckless Again (BWWM)

2. Conflicted and Tipsy

Jonas was washing my dishes.

The next morning when I came downstairs to make myself a cup of coffee, I found Jonas at my sink, his hands hard at work scrubbing my dirty dishes.

He stuck out like a sore thumb in the small kitchen of my townhouse. The limited amount of space worked for me and my sister, and I'd never been ashamed of it or had any problems with it. But with Jonas in it, it suddenly seemed too small.

I would've found the sight funny if I wasn't so annoyed by him being in my house, invading my space—doing my damn dishes.

So I wasn't complaining about his act of kindness so much as the other two things, but I was still annoyed.

His hair was dry and pulled into a messy bun at the back of his head. Only Jonas could make a man bun look as attractive as it looked on him.

It was just plain sexy and irritating.

He also had the same sweater and jeans on from the night before. They looked like they were still wet which couldn't have been comfortable, but I willed myself not to care, not to feel bad for him.

With those thoughts in my head—and other thoughts of him doing something that wasn't my dirty dishes—I cleared my throat, making my presence known.

He turned his head to the side. "Thought it was the least I could do."

Damn right.

"You really didn't have to," I said, not sure what else there was to say.

I turned on my Keurig and made myself a cup of coffee and one for Jonas too, deciding it was only fair to repay him.

I still remembered that he liked his coffee with just a little bit of creamer and three sugars. And he only liked it when I made it for him. Anyone else's just wasn't good enough.

Now I was taking myself down memory lane.

I had to put a stop to it.

So I said, "Made you some coffee. And you can shower if you need to before you leave."

He dried off his hands on his pants and turned around as I slid his cup of joe to him across the laminate countertop.

Looking surprised to see that I'd actually done something nice for him despite my hostile attitude, he took the mug in his hands and sipped it.

Our eyes met as I sipped mine.

"Just the way I like it," he murmured, green eyes on mine, watching, waiting for me to say something.

But I wasn't ready to take any trips down memory lane with him. Truthfully, I didn't think I'd ever be ready to go there with him. The past was a dangerous thing to dig up when it was best to just keep it buried.

I'd held a grudge for ten years, and I could admit that it was childish now that I was face to face with the very object of my hatred, or I what I wished was hatred.

We weren't teenagers anymore, making decisions with every part of our bodies except for our brains. It was different now that I knew what I'd missed—seeing him grow up, finding out what love was really about with him.

Hating him would've been easier, a lot easier. Being able to look at him and to not only think that I'd dodged a bullet but to believe it would've been a luxury. But I couldn't say that because he left without warning or reason, leaving me to conceive this idea that I was not good enough for him and it hurt.

And looking him in the eyes only made it hurt even more.

So I tore my gaze off of him and sipped my coffee, ignoring the achy feeling in my chest.