Page 110 of Zach
I went too far with her in my kitchen. I shouldn’t have gotten near her. But when she pushed back
into me, I lost my mind. I really thought I knew my type. The women I go for at the clubs are nothing
like Maya physically, and I’ve been missing out. That ass is just…everything.
Sick of myself, I sit up and place a food order, then flop down to wait. I’ll stuff my face and
pretend everything is fine and that tomorrow at work, everything will go back to normal. I’ll realize
this little obsession is an overreaction, and Maya will pretend nothing happened.
It’ll be fine.
But as I lay in bed, carb loading, eating a three-foot French baguette straight from the bag, the end
of it resting on my bare chest, I realize I’m a fucking loser, and I maybe, just maybe, might be
obsessed with Maya Miller.
Isn’t that a kick in the head?
AS THE DOORS OPEN TO THE PARKADE ON MONDAY MORNING, I’M DETERMINED TO ACT NORMAL. I’M
not going to do anything that might freak Maya out. Because I may not know what the hell is happening
with me, but I do know I’ll do anything to make sure she doesn’t leave me.
Leave Brash, I mean. Not me. We’re not together.She’s not for me. She deserves someone better.
I paste my most charming smile on my face, ready to pretend my ass off, only to see my brother
sitting in his otherwise empty van.
“Where’s Maya?” I bark at him. Thankfully, he lets my shitty tone pass and answers me.
“She went in with Cara. Declan drove himself today.”
“Oh. Ok. That’s fine. Totally fine. No worries.”
That gets a reaction. Frowning, Jonas studies my face, searching for some hint of what’s
happening. He shakes his head and turns away, then freezes, hand on the button to start the engine.
“Wait. I’m supposed to ask what’s wrong, right? Because your face is weird right now. Something’s
wrong with you.”
I splutter and halfheartedly deny it, but I’m also really happy that he said something. That he
noticed. “I’m not really ok, but I don’t think there’s anything you can do about it.”
He nods and starts the car, pulling carefully out of the garage after making sure I’m belted in. As
always, when Jonas is driving, I’m able to fully relax. When our parents were killed, I wasn’t in the
car with them. Jonas was, though. He was a tiny four-year-old, thankfully strapped into the best
carseat on the market. My parents barely made ends meet, but somehow they always scraped together
