Page 73 of Messy Strokes (Wrecked Roommates)

He steps closer, his chest heaving with frustration. “Where. Were. You?”

“I didn’t feel like cooking, so I grabbed some take-out.” I lift the white and red Chick-Fil-A bag into the air and wiggle it from side to side. “What’s your problem?”

“Give me your phone.”

“Why?”

“I’m gonna put an app on it.”

Digging my fingers into the diaper bag strap hanging from my shoulder, I demand, “What kind of app?”

“The kind that lets me know where you are.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

I chuckle softly. “Yeah, we both know that’s not going to work. Tell me.”

His expression twists with frustration as he bends closer and growls in my face, “This isn’t negotiable.”

“Why?” I fold my arms, surprised I still have the energy to go head-to-head with the bull in front of me. I should be careful. I’m still on thin ice. He still doesn’t like me. I’m still pissed at him for last night––and this morning. For making me wonder if he still cares about me at all.

But I can’t help it. He’s the most stubborn person I’ve ever met and is rarely challenged, only making me want to do it more.

Part of me wonders if it’s why he liked me in the beginning. Because I challenged him. Because he couldn’t boss me around. Because I was willing to give him hell instead of bending to his will like everyone else around him. Or maybe I’m inflating the connection we shared to make me feel better about pining after the bastard all this time. He sure as hell hasn’t let me get close to him since.

I lift my chin and demand, “Why isn’t it negotiable?”

“It just isn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“And you think that’s going to work with me?” I quip, cocking my head to one side. “I’m not in the mood for your bossy bullshit––”

“Give me the damn phone, Mads.”

“Not until you tell me why it’s so important for you to keep track of where I am. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you don’t trust me.”

“What if something happens to Penny?”

“Then I call you like a normal person.”

“What if you can’t get to your phone? Or you’re distracted––”

“By what?”

“By a fucking car wreck, Mads,” he explodes, his face contorting with rage and…fear.

My breath hitches as he glares down at me, daring me to argue with him again.

Apparently, I stepped into yetanotherminefield, and I have no idea how to get out of it.

“Milo,” I whisper, the crickets in the yard almost drowning out my quiet voice. “What’s this really about?”

He scratches his jaw and lets out a low, dry chuckle.

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