Page 27 of Bought and Broken

Honestly, it’s not my problem. Why am I even thinking about it?

I have peanut butter to clean up.

After cleaning up the mess, sure I got every shard of glass and glob of peanut butter, I go to my in-home gym to work off some steam. I cannot believe I just spent thirty minutes on my knees cleaning up Devon’s temper tantrum.

If I want this to go according to plan, I need to keep my head on straight. Meaning the anger I feel needs to be taken out in healthy ways.

Pretending to be in love with Devon is going to be harder than I thought, because she’s pushing my buttons every chance she can. I’m convinced the more I show her it won’t work, the more I keep my cool, the quicker she’ll take me seriously. Slipping up is what’s going to fuck me over. It’ll show her that I’m trying to be nice. She needs to think it’s natural. I have to be patient, understanding, giving. All the things she doesn’t fucking deserve from anyone, let alone from me.

Looks like I’m going to spend a lot of time in this gym this weekend.

After a ton of cardio and weights, I feel calmer, so I go up to Devon’s room and knock on the door.

“Go away!”

“Open the door, Dev,” I say, doing my best to keep my tone even.

“I said go away!”

I take a breath. “Just wanted to let you know there’s a heated pool. I know how much you like swimming.”

She doesn’t say anything, but she didn’t argue, so that’s something.

This girl is infuriating. Honestly, most of them are. I’m not even sure it’s her fault. It’s like women are made to piss us off. Which is insane considering they need us to reproduce and all.

Before I leave, I add, “I’m making lunch. I’ll let you know when it’s done.”

I hardly cook my own meals when I’m home. I don’t have time for it. Having a free and clear weekend isn’t something that’s normal for me. Cooking isn’t something I hate, but I don’t love it either. It’s just something I have to do from time to time. But what is pushing me to do it is the fact that Devon loves home-cooked meals because she rarely gets them. When we were young, Brent had a nanny who cooked three meals a day and made snacks in between. Devon always watched her. Once Dane and Devon were old enough to stay by themselves, she was fired. They learned quickly how to order takeout. Because even though Devon spent so much time in the kitchen watching someone cook meals, she didn’t seem to learn anything.

Looking through the fridge, I mull over what I want to eat when I hear the door upstairs open. Then soft footsteps on the stairs. I know she’s made it to the kitchen because I feel her behind me, but I don’t turn to look at her.

“Where is it?” she asks firmly.

I smirk but rid myself of it before turning around.

Even dressed in clothes that a homeless person would wear, she’s stunning.

Devon never could deny herself a swim. I’m not sure why her father never put a pool in. They have plenty of room and money. She always asked for one, but he never caved. He expected her to settle with a hot tub, but they aren’t remotely the same. You can’t swim in a damn hot tub.

Brent hasn’t done many things in life to piss me off, but that stunt he pulled did. We were about fifteen. Old enough to be in a pool responsibly. At the time, Devon and I were friends, and I saw the disappointment on her face when the hot tub was being installed. She never said anything to her father about it. She put a smile on and thanked him. I’m not sure she ever asked for the pool again after that. I didn’t understand why he couldn’t just give her what she wanted. I remember going home that night and looking up houses with pools, swearing I would buy each one for her when I was old enough to do so.

“End of the hall. Door on the left leads to the rooftop terrace. It’s private, so feel free to do whatever you want.”

“Like jump off?” she deadpans.

“You can try, but the barrier is pretty high.”

“I’m sure I could manage,” she says. “I’m pretty desperate to be away from you.”

She hurries up the stairs, her door closing loudly.

I shut the fridge, deciding I’m going to do something better than make lunch. Something that is sure to get her attention. Something that is really going to let her know that I pay attention to her.

Because I have—for years. At first, it was because I wanted her in my life as whatever I could have her as. Friends, then as more. Yet somehow in a matter of minutes, all those feelings I had for her burned into a pile of dust, and from it, the hatred was born. But whatever my feelings for her have been, I’ve always paid attention.

Which is why I know Chicago deep-dish pizza is one of her favorite things to eat, despite her love for home-cooked meals. And if my memory is correct, which it likely is, she hasn’t had it since the last time she came to Chicago a few years ago.

This will definitely earn me some points.

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