© Copyright 2012
All work is property of Leah Crichton, any duplication or reproduction of all or part of the work without explicit permission by the author is illegal.
Sawyer was on his feet fast, only problem was, Alexa was wrapped around his waist like a belt. It took some minor acrobatics to set her down in a gentle manner. As if he needed to protect her, her stood in front of her. Wasn't sure why. Maybe it was all those years of practice with Sadie.
“Wait here,” he said.
He walked to the kitchen in time to see Lane sweeping up a broken plate, cursing under his breath. His hair was falling into his eyes and the muscles on his bare back were taut.
“Between you and Dev I'm not sure how we have any dishware left,” Sawyer said.
Lane finished scooping broken pieces onto a dustpan. “They’re custom ordered from the UK. I bought four sets. There are still two in storage.”
Sawyer nodded, wondering why the hell he should care that there were two more sets in storage. The information belonged in a realm of domestic-type matters far beyond his reach.
“That noise stopped my heart for a second.”
Lane stood and pushed past him to the garbage. “Sorry. I went to do yoga this morning and Robbie's all snuggled up with Rachel in there. So I came out here and you were--” he stopped short.
“Snuggled up with Alexa out here,” Sawyer finished for him.
“Preoccupied,” Lane offered.
Lane was a creature of habit. Having a routine was important to him. Yoga was the first thing he did every single day of his life, followed by an everything bagel heavy on cream cheese and precisely three cups of coffee, black. A shower came next where he used the exact same soap and shampoo. He did his hair the exact same way. Live, eat, sleep, repeat. Every. Day. Without fail. To have a wrench thrown into his plans ensured a rocky start.
A pang of guilt struck him. Sawyer cleared his throat. “Alexa and I can go back to my room. You can Bruce Lee the living room all you want.”
Lane put the dustpan away. His jaw was tight and he seemed flustered, making Sawyer’s guilt worse. “I'm leaving. I'll get my stuff and just—go out.”
“Naw man, it's fine. Alexa and I-”
“I want to go out,” Lane said.
“Really, we can leave.”
Lane threw his hands up and clenched his teeth. “Sawyer. Never mind. I’m leaving. I'll see you later at band practice.”
“But you haven’t done your yoga yet.”
“I’ll do it later,” Lane said.
Sawyer assessed Lane. He was rigid and cold. His movements were far less relaxed than they normally were and his mood sure left a lot to be desired. Something about him was darker. “You alright?”
“Fine,” Lane said.
“You don't seem fine.”
His hands formed fists at his sides as if that was all they could do to avoid reaching out and strangling Sawyer. “I said I'm fine.”
“You're like the chick version of fine, which every guy knows means not fine. What's wrong?”
Lane didn't reply, instead pushing past Sawyer just as Alexa appeared in the doorway.
“I should wake Rachel up. We need to go.”
He couldn't be sure, but he swore he heard Lane mutter, “Yeah, you do.” He'd deal with Lane's less than gentlemanly attitude later. He had more important things to worry about, like stopping Alexa from going.
