Page 24 of Claimed By A Blue Eyed Menace

I chuckled, shaking my head as I pulled out of the parking lot. Yeah, she was mad, but I was enjoying every second of it.

Parker

B y t h e t i m ewe made it back to the penthouse, I was exhausted and starving. Shopping had drained me—not because I didn’t enjoy spending his money because I definitely did but because keeping up my attitude while fighting off the way my body reacted to Shooter was damn near a full-time job.

I kicked off my heels the moment I stepped inside, flexing my sore toes against the cool marble floor. “I’m starving,” I groaned, heading straight for the kitchen. I yanked open the fridge, hoping to find something, but it was practically empty. “Shooter, why is there nothing to eat in this damn house ? I’m sick of takeout.”

He strolled in behind me, pulling out a bag of weed and breaking it down on the counter like he didn’t have a care in the world. “Shoulda said somethin' while we were out,” he muttered, rolling the bud between his fingers before dumping it into a grinder. “I don’t cook.”

I shot him a glare over my shoulder. “Obviously,” I grumbled under my breath as I pulled out my phone and opened the Instacart app. If this was gonna be my life, I needed food in this house. Eating takeout every day was not it.

While I placed an order for groceries, Shooter finished rolling his blunt. He sparked it up, inhaling deeply before exhaling a slow cloud of smoke into the air. “Didn’t take you for a smoker,” he mused, watching me as I hit place order.

I shrugged, still tapping through my phone. “I had to hide it from my father, so I never made it a habit. But here and there… yeah.”

An hour later, the groceries were delivered, and I was in the kitchen, fully in my zone. I had an R&B playlist going, the smooth vocals of Summer Walker filling the space as I moved through the immaculate kitchen Shooter clearly didn’t use.

Fried catfish sizzled golden brown in the pan, the garlic mashed potatoes were whipped to perfection, and the asparagus was roasting in the oven with a drizzle of lemon butter. The scent filled the penthouse, warm and mouthwatering.

Shooter leaned against the counter, watching me with his arms crossed, his silver chains catching the light. “You can really cook, huh?” Didn’t take you for the domestic type.”

I flipped a piece of catfish and glanced at him. “You don’t know shit about me, Shooter.”

He smirked. “I know you fine as hell, got a smart-ass mouth, and can cook…” He pushed off the counter and stepped closer, his voice dropping. “And that you keep looking at me like you want me to bend you over this counter.”

I sucked my teeth, turning back to the food. “Never that.” I focused on plating the food, pretending like the heat creeping up my neck wasn’t from his presence behind me. The way he looked at me? Like I was something he was going to have, whether I fought it or not? It was dangerous. And the worst part? I liked it.

By the time the food was done, my stomach growled in anticipation. I slid the plates onto the kitchen island, and the scent of fried catfish, mashed potatoes, and roasted asparagus filled the air. Shooter took a seat at the island, his eyes roaming over the food as if he was about to devour me instead of dinner.

“You did your thing,” he said, his voice low, like he was actually impressed.

I slid into the chair across from him, setting my glass of Hennessy down before I served us both. “Don’t act surprised,” I shot back, then smirked. “I’ve got layers, you just don’t know how deep they go yet.”

Shooter raised an eyebrow as he poured the drink into his glass, swirling it around before taking a sip. “Guess we’ll see about that.”

I didn’t know why, but the way he said it made my pulse quicken, like he was waiting for me to slip, to show him something he could use against me. But tonight, I wasn’t playing his game. I reached for the catfish, biting into the crispy, golden skin, the flavor of the seasoning mixing perfectly with the flaky fish.

We ate in silence for a minute, only the clinking of silverware on plates and the soft music filling the room. The tension between us was palpable, but neither of us was ready to break it yet. I sipped my lemonade slowly, letting it burn down my throat. My mind kept drifting back to what Shooter said earlier—about me looking at him like I wanted him. And I did. That realization gnawed at me.

“You’re quiet,” he said suddenly, his voice rough, as though he was watching me closely. “What’s on your mind?”

I shifted in my chair, leaning back, trying to act like I wasn’t analyzing everything he had just told me. But I couldn’t lie—I was processing it all, trying to make sense of the man in front of me. “I don’t know,” I said softly. “A lot, I guess. You act like you don’t care about anyone, but I can tell there’s more going on behind your eyes. Like… maybe you’ve been hurt before.”

Shooter’s gaze softened just a fraction, but it was enough for me to notice. “Everyone’s been hurt, Parker.” His voice was quieter now, almost reflective. “That’s just part of the game.”

I nodded slowly, unsure of what to say next. I was treading water, not sure if I should keep digging or leave it be. But I couldn’t deny the pull. Something was compelling about him, something that kept drawing me in despite how much I told myself I hated him.

“Why you fightin’ me every step of the way?” Shooter asked, his tone suddenly sharp again, breaking my thoughts.

I met his gaze, unwilling to back down. “I’m not fighting you,” I said, my voice steady. “I’m adjusting to this shit and trying to figure you out. This… situation ain’t easy.”

He smirked, the arrogance in his eyes returning. “I don’t make shit easy for anyone.”

I felt a flicker of something in my chest, something I didn’t want to acknowledge. Something that told me I was getting too close to him for comfort. But before I could say anything else, Shooter grabbed the blunt from the ashtray, lighting it up again, exhaling the smoke into the air between us.

I grabbed my lemonade, taking another sip to calm my nerves. The silence between us was thick, but this time, it didn’t feel as uncomfortable as it had before.

“Tomorrow night’s the meeting,” Shooter said suddenly, his voice low. “Just play your part and everything will be good.”

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