Beckett:
The house was quiet, too quiet for a Saturday morning. I had the radio off, my coffee untouched, and my temper ready to flare the second I saw her. Ella Claire. She waltzed in this morning after a night at the club with Kenzie, looking like a damn hurricane had chewed her up and spit her out. Hoodie, biker shorts, hair a mess, cheeks flushed—and trying to sneak past me like I hadn’t seen a thousand versions of that walk of shame before.
She thought I was asleep. I wasn’t.
I waited until she got out of the shower, until I heard the bathroom fan click off and the floorboards creak under her bare feet. I didn’t say a damn thing. Not until now.
She padded into the kitchen, yawning, phone in hand, thumb tapping away at some conversation. Probably Kenzie. Probably telling her how go
