Page 22 of Cursed to Be Mine
“No.”
I smile. “You’re lucky. I love Scarlett, but Lord, does she try my patience sometimes.”
He doesn’t smile.
Maybe he doesn’t like kids…
Though who cares? Scarlett is twenty-two now, and I just want to fuck him, not marry him.
“So you want to come inside?” I take a step closer.
A phone rings from his pants pocket just as he moves forward, and I curse under my breath when he looks down to check it. Placing the beer down on the top of my car, he wipes his wet hands on his jeans and fishes out his mobile. A frown mars his lips.
“Definitely later,” he says, texting a response. “I’ll leave the bucket and sponge for Phil. Just have him put them beside my back door when he’s done with them.”
He turns, making his way to his two-story house, his fingers moving rapidly, purpose in his steps.
My eyes linger on his tight ass as a disappointed groan lodges in my throat. When he disappears inside, I wash it down with my beer, then sigh and pull out my phone to text Phil about my car.
No point staying out here, I grab his beer and step into my dining room. I close the glass door behind me. The urge to go upstairs with his bottle, to taste where his lips have been as I touch myself nearly pulls me to the stairs. But then I stop at the kitchen, and my eyes narrow.
Motherhood requires sacrifice.
Entering the kitchen, I put both our beers down on the white marble counter and then head to the fridge. I pull out all the burger meat. Opening the packages, I chuck the beef down the waste disposal unit in the sink. My anger mounts with each whirl of the blades, and the last packet deforms in my fingers.
Thinking of her enjoying a burger at my dining room table, inmyhouse, defying my one and only rule, I head upstairs. Hearing the shower on in the bathroom at the top of the landing, I beeline to Scarlett’s roomand start rummaging around for any hidden snacks, hoping there aren’t any. Hoping she wouldn’t be so disrespectful as to disobey –
I glower at the pile of candy under her mattress.
The cookies in her underwear drawer.
The chips in her closet.
Disgusted by the quantity of snacks I find, I leave to grab the trash bag out of the kitchen bin.
How is she not worried about herself?
The shower stops just as I finish throwing everything away. Standing in her room with the bag in my hand, I wait for her to enter.
She comes in with the towel twisted atop her head. She jumps a fraction –all that weight not being able to go any higher– as her eyes land first on me, then the bag. “What are you doing in here?” she mumbles, but I know she already knows. Her guilt is painted all over her chubby face.
“What did I tell you about eating this crap?” I lift up the bag.
When she doesn’t say anything, I purse my lips. “The doctors have told you you’re obese, Gen. Do you have a death wish? Well, answer me.”
She stares at the floor as she mumbles something.
“Speak up.”
“I get hungry.”
“And I get the craving to run people over with my car. That doesn’t mean I give in to it.” I throw the bag at her. She catches it, fumbling with it in her hands, some of its contents spilling out at her feet before she closes the flaps.
“Go ahead, eat something,” I snap. “Eat the fucking trash you love.”
Her cheeks flush red. “Ma…”
“Go on. Eat something.”
