Page 14 of My First Mistake
He frowns, like I have just told him the most ridiculous thing in the history of mankind. “What kind of fucked-up, backwater place doesn’t have coffee?”
“Um, the kind where you rent a cabin and have to bring your own supplies?”
He grunts, sounding like a Neanderthal, and also surprisingly hot, which I ignore. “I don’t suppose you have any coffee in your box of whatever-stuff-you-grabbed-from-your-apartment-before-you-left?”
“A, how dare you assume that my box of carefully curated essentials isstuff I grabbed from my apartment?And, B, no, I do not.”
He eyes me with suspicion and then he crosses the kitchen, heading straight for my box of random crap I totally threw in there last minute, and peers inside. “Ah, I see you prepped well for your four-day stay in an isolated cabin in the woods.”
Internally, I’m wincing, but I tip my chin up and maintain my air of righteousness.
“Cheez-Its.” He pulls the box out and inspects it. “That are three weeks past their use by date. Raisin bran.”
“It’s good for your bowels.” I repeat what my mom told me when she bought me that box over six months ago. Why are you talking about bowels, Addie?
He blinks rapidly, like he wants to remove my words from his brain. “A half-empty packet of Oreos.”
“Half-full, actually.”
“An open packet of family-size M&M’s.”
“They were sealed. I opened them on the way here if you must know.”
He reaches inside the box and pulls out a small packet of trail mix. “Oh, yeah. You’re real prepared, Addie.”
“Well, we are in the woods. Tell me where there is a more appropriate place for trail mix?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he pulls out the box’s last item. “And half a bottle of bourbon.”
“Obviously.”
“Tell me you didn’t open that on the drive here too?”
I snatch it off him. “Of course not. Although had I known I was going to walk into the cabin and be visually assaulted by your semi-nakedness, I would have taken a good slug when I got here.”
He doesn’t react to my insult, maintaining his usual frustrating air of self-confidence, or self-importance. “You say semi-nakedness like I did that on purpose, but I’d just got out of the shower.”
“You’re semi-naked right now.” I wave a hand in the general direction of his chest area. “Don’t you own any shirts?”
“I just got out of bed,” he protests. Then he cracks his neck and winces. “Or off of the couch—the most uncomfortable one I’ve ever had the displeasure of sleeping on.” I feel a pang of guilt. He really did look uncomfortable on there. “And, besides, we’re discussing your frankly abysmal box ofcarefully curated essentials.”
“It’s still a whole lot better than what you brought. Where is your contribution to our pantry, by the way?”
“I’ll remind you that until two days ago, I was booked into a luxury suite at the lodge. You know that place with a restaurant. And room service. And a coffee machine,” he groans while scanning the kitchen area like some finest Columbian beans may magically appear before our very eyes. And now that niggling guilt is back. Chase gave up all that comfort for me, and while it was wholly unwelcome and unnecessary, it was Brax’s doing and not his. And I, of all people, know how difficult it is to resist a request from my brother. He does this sad tone and these puppy-dog eyes that make people instantly bend to his will.
I put the bourbon down and pass Chase the box of tea. “I have ginger tea too.”
He pulls a disgusted face while examining the packet.
“Hey, it’s better than plain old water. At least try some.”
“I hate ginger,” he growls.
I can’t help but giggle, reminded of my college roommate and her hilarious ginger experience.
Chase scowls, obviously his lack of coffee exacerbates his already disappointing personality. “What’s so funny?”
“Oh, I’m not laughing at your coffee addiction, promise. You reminded me of someone just now is all.”
