Page 59 of Mostly Loathing You

“Well, seeing as you didn’t tell me that we were going to the living room…”

“And here I thought you had at least a base level amount of brain cells. Stupid me for assuming you could deduce that on your own.”

“Funny.”

“Red or white?” He doesn’t look away from me as he shuffles around in a drawer before pulling out a corkscrew.

“What?”

“Wine.” He raises his brows. “Red or white?”

“Oh, uh…red.” I don’t know why such a simple question has me discombobulated. It’s not that it’s a hard question, but the longer I spend in this apartment, the less I feel like I have a footing on solid ground.

He reaches into a rack on the counter and pulls out a bottle of Pinot noir with an intricate script on it, but I can’t make out what it says. He reaches into the same rack, where there are multiple types of wine glasses, and selects the ones reserved for red wine.

Liam has to be the only single twenty-nine-year-old man I know who has an assortment of wine glasses and doesn’t just drink boxed wine out of a dinner glass.

He passes by me with the bottle and glasses in hand before turning around. “Do I need to give you a play-by-play on how to walk to the living room?”

“Do I need to give you a play-by-play…” I mock him as I follow anyway, my hunger winning over the desire to irritate him.

I plop down on the plush navy sofa and sink a few inches, the lush fabric bringing me a sense of relaxation that I desperately need after the day I’ve had. The day that I have no intention of bringing up with Liam, given that I would probably have to answer questions about why I acted the way I did.

Liam hands me a plate and silverware before sitting down directly next to me, his side flush with my own. I struggle to formulate a shitty remark at his proximity, but as he hands me a glass of wine, it dies on my tongue.

“Do you want to pick something to watch?” He asks it so nonchalantly I almost answer without quip, but I stop myself. I just stare at him, a puzzled look on my face.

He looks at me with an equally confused expression. “What?”

“You’re being weirdly nice…”

“Believe it or not, princess, I am a nice guy.”

I scoff, earning me a scowl, but hedoesn’t retort. The nickname that he started using when we were kids as a way to taunt me whenever I was demanding—his words, not mine—rolls off his tongue, but it doesn’t irritate me like it normally does.

“Fine. Remote, please.”

He hands it to me instantly and I begin downloading the Disney+ app, but he doesn’t question me until I start typing in my selection.

“What are we watching?”

“You’ll see,” I say with a laugh as I continue to type.

J…O…N…A…S.

“Please tell me we aren’t watching that stupid show. It’s terrible!” Liam laughs but doesn’t attempt to take the remote.

“Of course we are! It’s a television masterpiece.”

“It’s a children’s show with terrible acting.”

“It’s nostalgic,” I say with a pout, eliciting an eye roll.

“Fine.”

Liam sits back without creating distance between us. He starts eating without any additional qualms about my choice in show, even if he doesn’t pay attention.

After a while, our plates on the coffee table are empty except for sauce residue, and he suddenly very much isn’t annoyed by my choice of television show as we switch toJonas L.A., the second season of the franchise.

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