Page 13 of Fighting for You
My eyes meet hers, shock written all over my face, I’m sure. It takes me half a second to think of a clever response, “You asking me out on a date, Freckles?”
Her nose scrunches as she says, “No.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Ouch, you’re really bruising my ego here, woman.” I won’t tell her this, but at least one of us knows it would be a bad idea.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that! I just… it’s just dinner. Yes or no? As a thank you,” she tacks on.
I let the silence sink in between us for a moment, hoping it’ll make her sweat a bit before saying, “Sure. Just dinner.”
She nods her head in agreement and turns around to serve said dinner. Over her shoulder, she says, “Go ahead and sit down, I’ll bring you a plate. What would you like to drink?”
“Normally, I’d say a beer but—”
“But what…?” she asks, her brows furrowed, looking over at me.
“Oh, I—uh, I just figured it’s probably hard to get alcohol with a brother like Hayes,” I answer sheepishly, desperately trying to tread carefully.
“Why would I—” she starts before her eyes go wide. “Wait. How old do you think I am?”
A nervous chuckle slips from my lips before I say, “Oh, I know better than to answer that question. I just assumed early twenties…” I let my words trail off, not sure if she’s going to see it as a compliment or an insult.
“Uh huh, but you also assumed too young to drink legally?”
I don’t say a word. I know a trap when I see one.
“I’m old enough to buy my own liquor, I just choose not to.”
“Got it, not a drinker. I’ll keep it in mind,” I say as I chuckle to myself. Ruffling her feathers is way too entertaining.
She rolls her eyes at my response, then turns her attention back to the fridge. “I have sweet tea or… uh, well, water.” She’s peering inside like another option will suddenly appear if she stares long enough. All I can focus on is how the bottom of her ass cheeks peek out from her sleep shorts with her bent over likethat. I take a moment to readjust myself as another part of me takes notice.
“Sweet tea is fine.” The table is small, with only three chairs instead of the traditional four. Just another quirk I find fascinating about Margot Mason.
Seconds later, she’s setting my plate and glass of sweet tea down in front of me. The pan-seared chicken and asparagus looks fucking delicious. I grab the glass to take a drink before I dig in but immediately spit it back out. She sits across from me, wide-eyed like she has no idea why.
“That,” I point to the glass in front of me, “is not sweet tea. That’s pure sugar water, Freckles. And it’s fucking disgusting.”
She folds her arms over her chest, staring me down like I’ve pissed her off. “I… might enjoy it a tad sweeter than most—”
“A tad?” I question.
“Okay, a good bit. Whatever!” She’s getting all mad and huffy again which makes me smirk. “What?” she demands.
“Nothing. You’re just cute when you’re mad.”
She grumbles. “I’m not mad, I’m offended.”
I shrug. “Semantics.” I bring the first bite of the chicken to my mouth, an audible moan leaving my lips as the flavors burst on my tongue. This woman could give Cary a goddamn run for his money. “Fuck, that’s good.”
Just like that, the blush returns, and a small smile quirks her lips. “Thanks,” she says shyly.
We eat in silence for a few minutes, only the sound of Billie Eilish’s “Ocean Eyes Remix”in the background surrounding us, before she points to her head where my scar is and says, “What happened there?”
I take another bite, trying to decide if I should make some shit up or tell her the truth.
“You want the truth or what I tell everyone?” I’m staring at my food but feel her gaze burning into me.
“Obviously the truth. Not sure why you’d offer it if you’ve lied to everyone else.”
