Page 57 of Mr. Wrong
Now quit being a fucking
baby and open the door.
There’s a half beat worth of silence before someone knocks on the front door, right on cue.
Me:We’re fighting when
this is all over.
She knocks again while I stare at my phone, waiting for Killian’s reply.
Kill:Come get it, bitch.
Me:I hate you.
She knocks again.
Kill:She’s not going away.
Trust me. Your girl’s a
honey badger.
My girl.
Ellenore isn’t my girl.
She isn’t my anything.
Never really was.
Kill: I sent Greta home.
Cass and I will be fine.
Handle your shit.
Tossing my phone on the coffee table, I stand and force myself across the living room to pull the door open. Ellenore is standing on the other side of it, cheeks flushed, dark eyes narrowing slightly when she sees me. “Good luck?” She holds her phone up like it’s a key piece of evidence in a capital murder trial. “Goodluck? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Like every other time I’ve looked at her, I’m completely floored by how absolutely gorgeous she is. How she can make a pair of ironed jeans and a soccer mom sweater look so goddamned good is something I’ll never understand. It’s so fucking unexplainable that there’s really only one explanation.
She’s magic.
Ellenore is fucking magic.
“What?” I tear my gaze away from her face and look at the phone in her hand, trying to make sense of her. As usual, I can’t, so I just keep looking at her while I shake my head. “I—”
That’s as far as I get before she pushes her way past me and into the little beach bungalow I exiled myself to five weeks ago. “Good luck today. I hope everything works out the way you want it to.” She gets as far as the couch before she turns to brandish her phone at me again. “I tell you I’m meeting my ex for coffee and your response is to fuck me and the morning after, wish melucklike I’m going on a job interview?”
Shutting the door, I frown at her. “What was I supposed to say, Elle?”
“I don’t know…” She gives me a helpless shrug, her eyes narrowing again. “You kissed me last night.”
“I did do that,” I say, getting ready for the round of mental gymnastics she’s about to put me through.
“And then you—”
I hold up a hand to stop her because I’m already on the verge of losing it and I don’t know what will happen if I have to listen to her say it twice. “I know—I did that too and I’m sorry.”
