Page 15 of Myla: The Hawthornes

“For savin’ your assagain?” he replied. “Not fuckin’ likely.”

“Then you can turn around and skedaddle on home,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “Because you’re not coming in my house.”

“You wanna do this in the rain?” he asked, throwing his hands up. “Fine with me, I’m already fuckin’ soaked.”

“Do what exactly?” I shot back. “If you’re not here to grovel, we don’t have anything to talk about.”

“Why the fuck do you think I have anythin’ to grovel about?” he asked dubiously. “You should be apologizin’ to me for puttin’ me on your dad’s shit list.”

I opened my mouth and snapped it shut again. I could notbelievehim. After the shit he’d said to my dad, acting like I wassome out-of-control party girl when we both knew that wasn’t the case? When the only reason things had gotten so out of hand was because he wouldn’t let me sleep in my own damn tent? A small growl worked its way up my throat.

“Well, this has been fun,” I said sarcastically. “You have a nice night.”

“We’re not done,” he snapped.

“Oh, I’m done,” I replied cheerfully, knowing that my tone would piss him off more. That was the best and worst part of knowing someone so well—you knew just how to push their buttons. I turned toward the door. “Bye.”

“Myla,” he called in warning.

“You have a safe ride home.” I walked back inside and slammed the door in his face.

What an absolute dick.

Lou stared at me wide-eyed from the couch.

“Oh shit,” Frankie mumbled, still staring out the front window.

Less than two seconds later, the door behind me swung open, hitting the wall with a bang.

“I should’ve locked the door,” I snapped as Cian walked right through it.

“I’ve got a fuckin’ key,” he barked back. He glanced at Lou and Frankie. “What the hell are you thinkin’ drivin’ down to Sacramento for a fuckin’ club party?”

“What?” Lou asked in confusion.

Frankie smiled.

“How exactly is it any of your business?” I asked, glaring at the water he was dripping on the floor. I didn’t have any idea what he was talking about, but his tone was grating on my freaking nerves.

“You’re jokin’, right?”

It was supremely irritating that he could look so hot while he was glaring at me and dripping water all over my original hardwood floors.

“Cian, just go home,” I ordered, throwing my hands in the air.

“Are you serious with this shit?” he asked in exasperation. “Grow the fuck up, Myla.”

“Interesting that you should say that,” I shot back. “Since apparently the entire reason you came over here was to order me around like a child. I’ll go to whatever freaking party I want. It’s none of your goddamn business.”

“It’s my business when you’re doin’ stupid shit that could get you hurt.”

“See, there you go, calling me stupid again.”

“I didn’t call you stupid,” he roared.

“You did it the night of the party, and you just did it again,” I argued. “Why the fuck are you even here? If I’m so stupid, maybe you should steer clear. Wouldn’t want it to rub off or anything.”

“Christ,” he whispered, roughly rubbing his hands over his face. “Why can’t you have a normal fuckin’ conversation? Just once.”

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