Page 304 of Tis the Season to be Bullied

“No.”

“You don’t want a?—?”

“I’ll be at the party, and I’ll be dressed, but it won’t be in something you bought me.” She tugs my hand off her belly and steps forward, turning and watching me warily as if convinced I would try and grab her again.

What Indi doesn’t know is that I can be patient if I want. So I’ll wait until we’re inside before trying to change her mind.

Because now I can’t get the thought of me and Indi alone in a changing room out of my head.

There are a handful of kids ahead of us, some leaning against the wall, others immersed in their phones, waiting for detention to start. One of them murmurs something about Denard being late, and I glance down at my watch. Weird—detention was supposed to start five minutes ago. I’ve never known Denard to?—

“Afternoon, everyone,” a voice calls out from behind us.

I turn, frowning at Ms. Parsons as she sweeps past us. “I’m afraid Mr. Denard has taken ill, so if you could all please follow me?”

“Where we going?” one of the kids up front asks.

Ms. Parsons turns, adjusting her glasses with a finger and giving him a wide smile. “I have a heap of fun activities planned for us this afternoon,” she says, her eyes running over the small herd of students trailing her. “We’ll be starting with some visualization exercises on the lawn. Come on, no time to waste!”

I’d been walking at Indi’s side. At Parson’s enthusiastic statement, we both break out in a groan. I glance at her, smiling, and she looks up at me and smiles back. But then her face solidifies again, and she surges forward, putting several feet between us.

Patience is my middle name, Indi, and I’m stubborn as fuck too. I meant what I said—tonight I’m making you mine.

You don’t get a say in the matter.

Chapter Thirty-One

Indi

I thought I had it all figured out, but I’d forgotten one very important element: Marigold Davis. When I arrive home after detention, she’s already home and busy with something in the kitchen. I try to sneak past to my room, but she must have the hearing of an arctic fox, because I haven’t gone two steps before she calls out to me.

“Indi? Join me, please.”

I roll my eyes and drop my backpack on the stairs. Sweet cinnamon hangs thick in the air, and I can’t help but inhale a greedy lungful as I step into the kitchen.

“What you making?”

“We’remaking snickerdoodles. And then shortbread, and some pound cake.” Marigold peers at me over her shoulder. “Hurry and go wash your hands. We have a busy afternoon ahead of us.”

“I…I have homework.”

“And the whole weekend to finish it,” Marigold says smoothly.

Fuck.

I hurry down the hall to the guest bathroom and wash my hands. When I come out, my eyes track down the hall to my mom’s old bedroom. I glance toward the kitchen. An electric mixer turns on, and I use the noise as cover to race down the hall and try the door.

Locked.

Because why on earth should anything ever be easy?

I roll my eyes and head back to the kitchen. Marigold turns off the mixer, spots me standing idle, and frowns. “Don’t just stand there. Make yourself useful.”

I walk over to the eye-level oven and peer inside. “Are these ready?”

“What does the timer say?”

Back to good old Marigold, eh? I knew our truce was too good to last. “One-minute twenty-five.”

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