Page 58 of Wherever You Are
I’m hooked.
Maggie would love this.I almost retrieve my phone, but I know better than to film them and send the video to my friend. I keep my cell hidden in my backpack. Where it needs to stay.
“I’ve forgotten nothing,” Rose spouts, heated whereas he’s calm and cool. “I just put you in the backseat, Richard. Stay. There.”
I forget that his middle name is actually Connor, and Richard is his real first name. Only Rose seems to constantly use it. Mostly as ammunition.
Connor grins. “The fact that you still believe you can order me around like a child is partially inane and partially amusing.”
“You’refullyaggravating—and stop grinning that way.” Rose covers his mouth with her hand and growls into an annoyed groan.
It looks like he’s grinning more, even beneath her palm.
She drops her hand. “Why can’t you just let me drive the vehicle?”
“I will, but I’m not going to be relegated to the backseat. I’m sitting next to you in every metaphorical scenario, darling.” He cups her cheek, and she lets him. Softly, he says a string of melodic-sounding French that I can’t even begin to translate.
Rose raises her chin, treaties in her yellow-green eyes, and she whispers French in reply. She touches his hand on her cheek, and Connor brings them down, lacing their fingers together.
Then they spin towards me.
“Uh…” I gulp, not prepared to be the center of attention when it comes to the nerd stars.
“You should sit,” Rose says coldly.
She’s not really ever sweet-natured. I can tell she’s not intending to be harsh when she approaches the Queen Anne chair and pats the cushion.
Rose is letting me sit inherchair? Lo and Ryke often tease her about that chair, but their words never dissuade her from taking a seat with crossed ankles.
Walking around furniture, I lower stiffly onto the regal chair, and then, nearly in unison, Rose and Connor sit on the adjacent couch. Rose looks a bit peeved by the synchronization, but she makes no mention of it.
Connor is staring through me. With his genius-level intellect, I question whether he can interpret my body language.
I hug my backpack on my lap and risk a glance at the kitchen door. No sound, no movement—nothing.
“Do you need anything?” Rose asks, making this less like an interrogation. “Coffee or a blanket?”
“No…thanks,” I say, still a little uneasy.
Rose nods, her posture like a wooden board. “I can’t sugarcoat anything, so if you can’t handle bluntness, then I advise you to cover your ears or wait for Connor tospell out everything in hisnauseatinglysmooth voice.”
“She meanspleasantly,” Connor says with a growing grin.
Rose drills a glare between his blue eyes. “I hate your voice.”
“You love my voice,” he rephrases.
I hope they continue to digress so I can leave this conversation without saying another word.
Rose unknowingly scoots closer to him, their eyes locked together in battle. “Is your name Rose Calloway—no, it’s not. Therefore, you shouldn’t translate my already intelligible words.”
“I’m reading the subtext of your statements.”
Rose snorts.
He continues, “Yes, you hate my voice, but you also love my voice. Tell me otherwise, and I’ll stop.”
“You’ll stop chiming in?” She’s disbelieving.
