Page 77 of Stuck With You
She twists and closes her book and computer, wrapping them against her chest.
I haven’t moved. I’m still locked in whatever the hell this woman is doing to me.
Her eyes fall to my bare arm and the ink that covers it. Her head cocks to the side as if she’s observing a rare painting.
I cross my arms over my chest. “I charge viewing fees. Extra for them to be ogled.” There we go. This is my house, and I’m coming back. She has not won.
She makes a snorting noise. “I was just considering if a tattoo would help me pass statistics.”
Her eyes fall to my tattoo of Newton’s third law again.
Her lips move to the side, hiding a smile as she steps around me. “I’ll remember the fee and who to come to if I have to take physics. You can text me a quote for borrowing your arm.” She and that sassy smile disappear around the doorway.
My eyes roll to the ceiling as my fists uncurl, and my body stands down from everything it was tempting me to do.
I run a hand through my hair.
“Slade,” she whispers.
I twist and see her head peeking around the trim. “Good night. Don’t let the bugs bite.”
This was a fucking terrible idea.
I pull a bottle of water from the refrigerator and guzzle it, knowing that if I’m going to maintain any semblance of my simple life and the comfort it provides, I need to get to the shop early in the morning and stay there.
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I scoop coffee grounds into the filter and press the button. The sky beyond the small kitchen window is beginning to brighten.
If I hurry through the shower, I can hopefully make it out the door before Sarah wakes up. I need space to think and process, and that cannot happen when I’m in close proximity to the blue-brown-eyed woman upstairs. She takes all of the strict rules I’ve lived by and shreds them to freaking pieces with one smartass remark after another. It wouldn’t matter, except she pinpoints my weak spots and drills right through—all of the fractures no one else seems to see.
The coffee pot spurts and hisses, and I turn—
Oliver stands in the doorway, rubbing one eye with his fist. “I’m thirsty.”
Grover quickly follows behind him, barging into the kitchen.
I run my hand through my hair, pushing it away from my face.
Well, shit.So much for my plan.
I exhale, resting my hands on my hips. “Ok. Do you want some water?” He shakes his head. “What does your mom usually give you?”
He shrugs his shoulders.
“Coffee?”
A sleepy grin curls at his lips. “No, Mama d-d-doesn’t let me have coffee.”
It’s clear Oliver has a speech impediment. I really noticed the day in the grocery store when he was upset about Sarah not letting him have a balloon, but I can tell it’s worse when he’s excited or tired.
I grab one of the two sippy cups on the towel beside the sink. “If I give you orange juice, will that get me in trouble?”
He shakes his head, but the mischievous look in his eyes tells me it might. I take a gamble and pull the bottle from the fridge, pouring him some.
He tips the cup to his mouth and drinks, the pressure releasing when he pulls it away. “D-d-do you haveBluey?”
“What’s that?”
