I follow, but deep down, I’m not sure I want him to stop. I like the way my name rolls off his tongue.

Which leads me to some other pretty naughty thoughts that I probably shouldn’t be thinking about as he leans in to kiss me again.

Eighteen

This time, the jump back to the McIntyres’ home is seamless.

Well, mostly seamless.

There’s no stumbling, no shifting from sitting to standing—or from standing to landing on my ass on the floor. There’s a sharp pain and a wave of nausea that flies through me, but I guess you can’t jump fifty years through time without any sort of side effects.

I check the clock on the mantel—it’s been about five minutes since I left. I remember what Claire told me before: one hour in the past is one minute in my time.

And it still didn’t feel like enough time.

The dining room is empty now, but there are echoes of life here. I hear someone putting dishes away in the kitchen. Music wafts out from the study. Everyone is in their own separate area of the house, like creatures licking their wounds. I take two steps toward the hallway, intending to slip out, but Blake walks through the foyer and into the dining room.

“Hey,” he says curtly.

“Hey back.”

Awkward silence. I hate it. I’m never the type of person who can just let it be. I need noise. I need stimulation. I need something. So I do what I always do when the silence wants to swallow me whole.

I speak.

“I’m sorry about dinner. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“It’s…it’s cool. Not your fault.”

“Okay, I just feel like I made it worse.”

“I said it wasn’t your fault, Andre. Drop it.”

I quirk my brow in response. “I’m just trying to apologize. You don’t have to—”

Before I can finish, Blake interjects. “Not everything centers around you, Andre. Despite what my mom might have told you or led you to believe, you’re not the center of this family’s life. We existed before you, and we’ll have the same problems after you’re gone.”

The curtness and the way Blake’s words slice, with the intention of mortally wounding, throw me off-balance. He brushes by me, grabbing the pitcher of iced tea, which still sits on the table, and pours himself a glass, the bicep of his right arm flexing while he does it.

“Did I do something to piss you off?” I ask.

Give him the benefit of the doubt, Andre, I think. Maybe something happened that you’re missing.

“Nope.”