Page 50 of Feast

“This wasn’t my idea,” he reminded her, coming back in with a laptop and a chair that matched the one she was sitting in.

“Well, it wasn’t mine, either,” she said tartly.

He merely grunted, plunked the laptop down on the table, the chair on the floor, and veered into the kitchen.

He’d buttoned his shirt, which was a bummer, but the way his ass looked in the worn jeans when he bent to pull a beer out of the fridge almost made up for it. She was admiring it when he turned around and caught her staring.

He twisted the cap off his beer. “You’re staring at my ass.”

“Sorry,” she said cheerfully. “I was just wondering if it still has the divots from my nails in it.”

He snorted. “Does your ass still have my handprint on it?”

“No, that faded pretty quickly. Very disappointing, actually. But I didn’t sit right for at least two days.”

She could tell that pleased him, but he only grunted. Sipping his beer, he walked over and plopped his exceptional ass into the chair. “Sorry.”

“Excuse me? I didn’t quite catch that.”

He sighed so hard that the papers on the table fluttered. “Don’t be a brat. I said I’m sorry.”

“For?” she prompted.

When he just scowled at her, she decided to help him out. “‘Being a dick’ is the answer we’re looking for.”

She’d have sworn his lips twitched. “Fine. I’m sorry for being a dick.”

“Thank you,” she said primly. “I forgive you.”

“Jesus,” he muttered, and this time she was sure his lips twitched. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Get it over with?” she gasped, planting a shocked hand over her heart. “Oh, no no no, little bro. One does not get a tax return ‘over with’.”

“Don’t call me little bro.”

“One savors a tax return,” she continued, ignoring his pained wince. “Relishes it. One lingers over the income, revels in the deductions. There is delight in depreciation schedules, euphoria in exemptions.”

She closed her eyes and sighed dreamily. “Bliss.”

“That’s the same face you make just before you come,” he observed. “It’s pretty disturbing.”

“Don’t kink shame,” she admonished, and abandoning her drama school audition, opened her eyes to focus on her laptop and ignore the heat in her face she hoped he wouldn’t notice. “All right, Spencer, let’s get started.”

“Spence,” he said and she glanced up. “My friends call me Spence.”

“Friends?” Genuinely delighted, she sniffed and flapped a hand near her eyes as though waving away tears. “We’re friends? Oh, Spence. I don’t know what to say.”

“Yeah, Esme and Tuck would like you,” he muttered into his beer.

“Who are Tuck and Esme?”

He set his beer aside and reached for his laptop. “Friends,” he said. “Who I hope you never meet because my life is fucking complicated enough.”

“My friends call me Maddie, or Mads,” she offered.

“Mads,” he drawled, and though his eyes stayed on his laptop, an actual smile quirked his lips. “That fits.”

Unoffended, she just grinned and keyed into her computer. “Okay, little brother. Let’s wrangle some taxes.”

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