Page 131 of Keeping Kasey
Rinsing out my mouth and spitting into the bushes isn’t the most ladylike thing to do, but I can’t bring myself to care.
“You never did explain why you did that,” he says.
“Is this part of the interrogation?”
“Do you feel threatened?” His tone is light and teasing, the same way it always is, and I have no idea what he wants from me.
I look over my shoulder, but it’s just us out here. “Where’s Logan?”
“Still in his office,” he says, then stands, holding out a hand to me. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”
I ignore his hand and stand. His lips pull into a broader smile that I also ignore.
“I can take care of myself.”
He nods, not seeming at all bothered by my dismissal. “What do you want for breakfast?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I’ll go with eggs and sausage. Would you rather eat in the dining room or your room?”
I just stare at him, searching for the ulterior motive, but I can’t find anything. When it comes to Damon, it could be that he’s just that good at hiding his emotions, or simply has nothing to hide at all.
“What are you doing?” I finally ask.
“Right now? Trying to distract myself from the puke all over the bushes. Seriously disgusting, Goldie.”
“Blame the bastard who made me eat mushrooms,” I mutter, pushing past him to go to my room.
It’s faint, but I could swear I hear him chuckle before he calls after me, “If you don’t come back down in thirty minutes, I’ll assume you want to eat upstairs.”
I ignore him, mostly because I have no idea how to handle Damon.
Logan is easy—he wants my submission and obedience. James doesn’t necessarily want me to suffer, but if it means getting what he needs from me, he won’t hesitate.
But Damon is the same goofy guy I used to spend the day with, and after everything, I have no idea how to react to him.
After rinsing off in the shower, changing clothes, and brushing my teeth, I make the calculated decision to go back downstairs.
The cards in my hand are limited, and while hiding away in my room is the safest option, it won’t gain me anything. I have no idea what my goal is for going downstairs, only that it has to give me some better insight than I’d get in my room.
The only strategy I have right now is observation.
When I enter the kitchen, wearing leggings and a sweatshirt two sizes too big, Damon is at the stove, plating eggs and sausage.
“Perfect timing,” he says with a smile, holding a plate in either hand.
Despite having just emptied the contents of my stomach, my mouth waters at the scent. Aside from the pasta yesterday, my lastmealwas a muffin and a cup of tea from a vendor at the flea market.
Real food sounds delicious—even at the cost of sitting across from Damon.
“Feeling better?” he asks as we sit.
I cannot think of a single reason Damon has for trying to start a conversation, but in any case, I’m not interested. I barely wanted to talk to him when we were on good terms.
A blissful two minutes pass before he tries again.
“So, are you going to answer me?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow. “About why you locked me in the bathroom?”
