Page 46 of Fighting Words

“Stop being immature.”

“Stop pissing me off!”

“God, you’re insufferable!”

Then he drops me down on the kitchen floor, walks to the back door, and slams it shut behind him. A minute later, he’s back at the wall, laying rocks, repairing it with careful attention to detail. Inside, I rage.

CHAPTER 14

SUMMER

After our fight outside,I spend the afternoon in my room, lounging on my daybed beside Cat, rereadingThe Last ExodusandEcho of Hope, looking forevery scene Amelia shares with Julian. I feast on their interactions, hungry for more, rereading dialogue again and again, seeing things differently now that I know what’s to come for them and their relationship.

Nate’s absolutely right. It was there, hidden. It’s funny the way characters can do that in a book, take on a new life, become entirely separate from the person who created them.

It doesn’t mean I’m not still angry about the change. While I read about Amelia and Julian, I’m also reminded of everything Amelia and Marcus have been building. His love for her still exists. I read a particularly tough scene, a tender moment they share, just before I come down to make dinner. It was a mistake; I’ve worked myself up again.

When Nate pads down the stairs, I can’t even turn to look at him. I know he’s showered; I don’t need to confirm it by glancing back at his damp, tousled hair. I can smell his soap, a familiar scent now, a favorite comfort.

He doesn’t give me space in the kitchen the way I want him to. I’m clearly making dinner, but he puts away dishes, fiddles with a bottle of wine, accidentally brushes against me once, then twice, so that I can’t help but let out a little sound of frustration.

He isn’t the least bit bothered by it. If I were acting this way in New York, Andrew would scurry up the stairs and leave me be. If anything, Nate only burrows in deeper.

“What are you making?” he asks.

To be honest, I don’t even know. I’ve just thrown some things together. “Pasta with chicken and buttered bread.”

“It smells delicious.”

I aim my wooden spoon at him. “Be glad you’re even getting some after what you did earlier.”

“Carrying you inside?”

At the sound of amusement in his voice, I glare at him, eyes narrowed and harsh. He’s smiling, and god, unfortunately, he’s so good-looking. Black t-shirt, jeans, bare feet, muscled forearms, dimpled cheeks—the details of a man who seems to control my every nerve.

I don’t even say anything. I can’t. I just turn around and keep cooking.

He doesn’t ask me if I want wine; he knows I do. He gives me a heavy pour then drops the glass on the counter beside the stove. Of course, he’s too close when he does it. His scent wraps around me like a hug. No, avise.

I take the glass and drink the first sip, surveying him sneakily over the rim. He’s watching me too. It appears neither one of us is all that stealthy. “Saw you playing with rocks again today.”

His lips curve around the rim of his glass. “Why do you watch?”

“There’s no other form of entertainment around here.”

His brow arches like,Isn’t there?

“And what did you do this afternoon?”

“I worked,” I say defiantly. Ha!

“On what?”

I didn’t expect the follow-up question. I have to look away. “Just retracing plot points in the first two books.”

“You were reading Amelia and Julian’s scenes.”

I don’t bother responding. I make a big show of stirring the boiling pasta like it’s a huge imposition, and then I go over to him, right up to his chest, and when he doesn’t move, I scowl and point to the drawer behind him. “You mind?”

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