Page 23 of Forced Knocked-Up Mate

I step back slowly and turn towards the living room. My fists clench against my will as a low throb starts in my temples. My jaw clenches with rage.

When I enter the living room, he’s sitting on the couch in the dark, watching TV and eating a huge bag of chips. Crumbs are being scattered all over the floor with every bite, but he doesn’t seem to notice, much less care.

“Peter,” I say, barely controlling my voice.

“Hmm?” he answers, chewing.

“What the fuck did you do to the kitchen?”

He looks at me, blinking innocently. “I made some food, just as you suggested.”

“You left the place a wreck!”

“Yeah,” he says, shrugging. “I’m sure it won’t take you that long to clean up.”

“What?”

He grins, and it’s so devilish and annoying, I don’t know if I want to kiss him or slap him.

“Chop, chop, babe,” he says. “Get on with those wifely duties.”

“How dare you!”

He laughs, shaking his head. “You told me to cook. You didn’t say clean up.”

“Well, clean up your mess!”

“It’s your kitchen.”

“It’sourkitchen.”

“It won’t be mine until you have some decent food I like to eat. Until then, deal with the consequences.”

I’m so angry, I can’t speak. He’s not just teasing me now. There’s a hardness in his eyes telling me that if I keep going, he will really throw down.

I turn my back on him, feeling my nails bite into my palms as my fists clench even harder. Stomping my way down the hall, I make a short detour to the bathroom, only to find another crime scene.

I stand in the doorway, surveying the damage. Wet towels are all over the floor, soaking in deep, ice-cold puddles of water. Soap, shampoo, and cosmetic jars are scattered all over the counter, their sticky contents smeared across the tiles. My brush is full of thick, knotted red hair.

My eyes close, and my entire body hardens as I fight not to scream. There is an expectant silence coming from the living room, as if he’s waiting for me to shout at him.

I turn around and go back to my room. Even though I’m not doing badly at keeping my cool, I can’t help slamming the door. Immediately, I start my breathing exercises and put my ear pods back in. Stretching out across the bed, I focus onmy meditation routine until my muscles relax and I finally fall asleep.

When I wake up, I’ve forgotten about last night. My barely awake brain doesn’t quite register the events of the day before. Stumbling towards the bathroom, I’m vaguely aware Peter is around, but nothing specific surfaces in my brain.

Until my feet hit the freezing, wet towels on the floor.

Shock and fury crackle through me, waking me up more suddenly than any coffee in existence. Muttering under my breath, I throw the wet towels into the hamper, then pick up all the jars and tubes from the sink and put them back in the cupboard.

Moisturizer, I can understand. But what possible use would he have for eye cream or repairing serum?

Easy answer. He had no use for them; he just wanted to use everything to piss me off.

Great job. It worked.

After organizing some of the chaos in the bathroom, I tentatively head to the kitchen. To my surprise, Peter is awake and standing at the stove. Even more shocking, the sink is empty and last night’s mess has been cleared away.

“Morning,” he says, sounding almost cheerful.

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