Page 21 of Fighting Words

I nod toward her t-shirt. “Aren’t you cold?”

I really need her to put her sweater back on.

She shrugs and waves away my concern. “I’ve been working. You wouldn’t believe the crap I found. A box of crackers from 2005!”

I smirk. “That’s practically a collector’s item.”

She laughs and shakes her head again. “Did you even bother going through the kitchen when you moved in?”

No, actually; I never cared to. But I don’t admit that to her.

“I’m going to make dinner if that’s okay…since you made breakfast. I’m a pretty good cook. My mom’s amazing and she’s taught me a lot.”

Summer is a talker. The entire time I’m in front of the fireplace, loading logs and striking a match, she goes on about her mom’s cooking. It doesn’t matter to her that I don’t respond; she just keeps on going.

This cottage has housed nothing but silence for years. Occasionally, I’ll put on a record or listen to an audiobook, but the majority of evenings, I enjoy the peace and quiet. Summer has completely shattered that.

I need some wine.

But when I go to get my corkscrew out of the drawer where I usually keep it, I find the silverware.

“Dammit, why did you rearrange everything?”

I open another drawer and slam it closed.

“The kitchen made no sense! You had the knives and forks in one drawer and the spoons in another. I found an old moldy lemon in that drawer over there! Took me ten minutes to scrub the spot clean.”

I give up on finding the corkscrew, grab my jacket off the back door, stuff my feet in my boots, and head straight outside. Never mind that it’s cold as hell out here with my wet hair. I need to get out of the house and away from Summer. Exceptbloody hell, my jacket smells like her. This is the one she wore into town today, and her perfume lingers on it, floral and sweet.

I throw up the hood, stuff my hands in my pockets, and stomp over to the shed. I need to make sure the firewood is stacked on the tarp and out of the snow. I don’t want it getting wet. The task would normally only take me ten or fifteen minutes, but I stretch it out, lingering until I have no excuse but to go back inside. Besides, my hands are nearly frozen.

The kitchen smells amazing, rich and savory. I kick the snow off my boots and drop my hood. Summer looks over at me, smiling that effervescent smile. Her toes wiggle in her socks. Her jeans fit her ass perfectly.

I haven’t slept with Alice in a year, which means I haven’t slept with anyone in a year. That’s too long. Clearly. I’m looking at Summer like she’s ready to be devoured. It doesn’t help that she has a body fit for Aphrodite, those long legs and curves. She reaches down into a lower cabinet for something and I see down the top of her t-shirt. It’s like I’m staring at something forbidden. Every part of me takes notice.

This isn’t going to work.

I need her gone. Now.

I open my mouth to tell her to pack her bags right when she steps away from the stove to grab a serving spoon. “I made pasta with spicy sausage and spaghetti squash. Hope you’re hungry.”

Fuck me. I am.

“I opened a bottle of red. Your glass is on the table,” she tells me.

Sure enough, the bottle sits between two place settings. She’s gone to a lot of trouble to make it look nice.

“Thanks,” I mumble before going over to wash my hands so I can take a seat.

I know this dinner is going to be awkward, and it is. With how confined the kitchen is, it feels like we’re right on top of each other when she comes around to serve me. Her hip brushes my arm when she asks if I want any parmesan cheese.

I clear my throat. “Yes, please.”

Maybe we need some ground rules. Like she’s not allowed to come downstairs from the hours of 8:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m.

She takes her seat and picks up her wine, groaning as she takes the first sip. More of her hair has slipped out of her knot. She looks completely undone. Ravaged.

I get busy eating my dinner. The faster I finish, the faster I can escape upstairs.

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