Page 11 of Absinthe Dreams
"Son of a bitch," I groan, grabbing plates to load them up. I barely have the chicken and roasted veggies arranged when her door slams against the wall.
That's my first indication that she's pissed.
My second is the way she shouts my name like I put dye in her shampoo bottle again. For the record, I didn't. Wyatt and I only did that shit once, when we were fourteen.
The possibilities for punishment are never-ending on a vineyard in the middle of summer break. We sweated every minute of the day for two weeks straight over that bullshit. And she pulled up a fucking lawn chair and watched with a smile on her face for the whole two weeks.
Thanos looks at me like he wants to know what the fuck I did this time. It's a good question. The possibilities are endless.
She stomps into the kitchen with her hands on her hips, fire in her eyes, and a growl on her lips. Fuck, she's beautiful. Her wavy brown hair curls around her flushed face, and her mossy green eyes shoot off sparks.
"What's up?" I ask, trying to pretend like my dick isn't pressed up against my zipper hard enough to leave indentations of the teeth all up and down my shaft.
"You called my dad."
Well, fuck me running.
"Figured he should know you were here," I say, sliding her plate onto the table. He seemed grateful to hear that she wasn't alone. He's worried about her.
"That's not your job," she growls at me.
"He's your dad, princess. I wasn't going to leave him worried that something had happened to you. We both know you don't want that. So, yeah, I called him."
She huffs out a breath, spluttering, but it's not like she has an argument here. She knows I'm right. "I was going to call him," she finally mutters.
"Yeah, but you didn't." I nod at the table before grabbing the bottle of wine I brought for Wyatt. Looks like she needs it more than he does. And whether she appreciates it or not, I'll always look out for her. The last thing she wants is to hurt her parents. I know her well enough to know that. "Sit. Eat."
She blinks as if just noticing the food on the table or the mess of dishes in the sink. "You cooked?"
"Figured you were hungry." I shrug like it's not a big deal. Feeding herisn'ta big deal. The fact that she hasn't eaten anything except for half of a banana since she got here worries the fuck out of me, though.
She stares at me for a long, silent moment and then dips her head, hiding her eyes behind her hair. "I feel like a jerk for yelling at you now."
"Feel free to be pissed while you eat. Doesn't bother me any." It's a lie. I want her laughing and smiling, not growling. But at this point, I'll take whatever I can get. I'm that desperate for five minutes of her time.
She shuffles toward the table before sinking into her chair. I watch the way she peers at her plate, turning it around like she expects the chicken to jump up and bite her.
"It's just chicken, Chloe." I plunk a wine glass down beside her, making her jump a little. "I didn't poison it."
"You might have," she mutters.
"Out of the two of us, you're more likely to do the poisoning."
"Why? Because I'm a woman?"
"I mean, statistically speaking…" I circle the table before sliding into my seat just in time to catch her scrunching up her face at me in a scowl. "But that's not what I meant. You're the one who has been mad as hell at me since we were teenagers."
She rolls her eyes, reaching for the wine. "You're imagining things."
"Uh-huh." I cock a brow at her. "Last time I saw you, you told me to go fuck myself. The time before that, you threatened to hit me with your car. The time before that, you said—what was it? Oh, that's right. I swear to God, you make me want to gouge my own eyes out," I say, mimicking her voice.
Her lips curve into a grin, a soft laugh of protest escaping as she fills her glass to the brim. "First of all, I do not sound like that. Secondly, that is not what I said. And third, it was five in the morning, Trystan. You can't expect anyone to be rational before the sun even rises."
"I'm rational before the sun rises."
"That's because you're an actual psychopath." She lifts her glass to her lips, amusement dancing in her gorgeous eyes. "You like getting up with the chickens. You do manual labor with the chickens. That's unnatural, no matter how you slice it."
"Eat your damn chicken and hush," I say, chuckling. She has never been a morning person. Even as a kid, getting up early used to piss her off. And I always loved waking her up beforethe sun just to listen to her grumble and growl. I always had her laughing before it crested the horizon.
