Page 7 of Secrets That We Keep (Forbidden Descendants 2)

Except I kind of liked it.

Almost as much as I liked the way he said it.

It brought out the butterflies in my belly.

What was worse, the bastard only winked at my whiny demand. He just had to look super-hot when winking, too.

“Nice try,” he said, his voice all husky and deep and male. “But I have a sister. Lady problems don’t rattle me. And anyway, you have to admit; Bells is a hell of a lot better than what I used to call you.”

I furrowed my eyebrows, unable to remember what he used to call me, so he rolled his hand. “Isabella,” he sang softly. “Has a bad smell-a. Got diarrhea and pooped Nutella.”

“Seriously!” I gasped. “You’re the evil cretin who came up with that awful chant?”

When I grabbed an orange that was sitting in a basket on the table between us and chucked it at him, he laughed and dodged, deflecting the fruit off his muscled forearm.

“What?” he asked with fake innocence. “You were a mature twelve to my ten. I had to level the playing field between us somehow.”

“I was thirteen when you were ten,” I argued because I needed something to argue.

“Twelve and a half,” he allowed.

I shook my head. “You were such a little shit.”

He nodded in satisfaction as if proud of the label. “Yeah, I totally was. Good times.”

“And you haven’t improved all that much, either,” I goaded, “hiding my damn push pops from me. That’s unacceptable, you know.”

“Then, how about this?” He batted his lashes playfully. “I’ll buy you a whole new box of push pops if you tell me what’s wrong.”

I pulled back in surprise, realizing he honestly wanted to know what was bothering me. Gracen wouldn’t have pried like this. He’d either already know, or he’d be patient and chill and wait for me to tell him when I was ready.

I wasn’t sure how to handle being pressed to open up. It made my chest feel hot and achy. Swallowing hard, I grew tempted but also extremely unsure.

“Well, that’s the problem,” I finally admitted as I picked up another orange so I could toss it between my hands and combat the sudden anxiety rumbling through my stomach. “Nothing’s actually wrong. I’m not even on my period. I was just feeling—I don’t know—grumpy and lonely and depressed, I guess, and reliving bad decisions.” In men. I glanced across the table at him. “Gracen would’ve understood.”

“Okay,” he said, slapping his hands together and rubbing them in preparation. “I can work with this. What would Gracen be doing for you right now? We’ll see how I compare.”

I wrinkled my brow. “You really want to help me? Like he would?”

Lifting one shoulder, he said, “Sure. Why not? Like I said, I was bored and antsy myself. I need something to distract me.”

Noticing that he did indeed seem a bit off, I sat up straighter. He was always scruffy, but his clothes seemed more wrinkled, facial hair thicker, and the lines under his eyes were deeper than I’d ever noticed them being before. Had he not been sleeping well?

Suddenly worried and ready to kick the ass of anyone who’d distressed him, I demanded, “What the hell? What’s gotten you into a funk?”

“Ah, nothing.” He waved a hand and mumbled out a dismissive sound as he slid his gaze toward the ceiling as if trying to downplay his problems. “Angie just keeps calling, is all, asking me to come over.”

“Angie?” I made a face. “I thought you broke up with her months ago.”

“I did.” He sighed and scrubbed his face. “She’s mean and unstable and, honestly, I can’t stand her. I just want it all to be done. But then she’ll call sometimes, sounding all grumpy and lonely and depressed—” He raised his eyebrows my way as he repeated my own words. “And—I don’t know—I start feeling guilty.”

When his phone began to ring from his pocket, I scowled. “That her?”

He shrugged, looking miserable. “Probably.”

I lifted my hand. “Give it here.”

He sent me an untrusting glance. So I shook my fingers insistently. “Come on. I’m not getting any younger. Give me your phone.”

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