Page 44 of The Home Grown
“Lively. You seem a smidge uptight, that’s all. Maybe you should … relax a little.”
“Uptight? You’re joking, right?” She slams the fridge shut.
“Yeah. You’ve been in a bad mood since you showed up at my place. Granted, you’ve warmed a little, but I can tell—” I pause, taking in her expression before deciding to change direction. “You know there’s worse things in the world than realising a wedding experience could be real, right? Hey—maybe we can sue them or something? Every cloud and all.”
Ellie looks at me with disgust.
“I’m sorry that my bad mood is not to your liking, but what you need to understand is this ‘wedding’ crap is just another thing to add to my ever-growing list of fuckups. I know how to have fun and relax, but I’m sorry for not having the same idea of a good time as you.”
“Sweetheart, you have no idea what I class as a good time.”
I throw her a wink—and if I’m not mistaken, she shivers. Though being fair, it is fucking freezing in here.
She pauses for a moment before huffing.
“Fine. Pass me that tequila,” she says curtly, pointing to a bottle in the drinks cabinet.
“Hey, come on now … I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Pass it.” She steps closer, reaching for it anyway.
A powder-fresh scent wafts off her hair and has me wondering what her skin smells like.
“Go ahead,” I say, stepping aside.
But as she grabs the bottle and turns, she bumps straight into me. My hand finds her waist automatically, steadying her.
She parts her lips, maybe to say something, but then she pulls free and slides past me, heading for the cupboard above the kettle.
She pulls out a glass, pours a generous measure, and knocks it back in one go.
“Look,” I start, “you don’t have?—”
But she’s already setting the glass down, slipping her tongue out to catch a stray drop trailing her bottom lip.
Now it’s my turn to shiver.
“What’s wrong, Mike? Don’t tell meyou’retoo uptight for a little tequila?”
A teasing smirk plays out on her face.
I don’t even like the damn stuff, but she’s taunting me. The tone of her voice and the look in her eye have me setting down the Macallen, stepping forward and reaching for the tequila.
I pour a measure into the glass she used before sinking it, eyes locked on hers the entire time.
She stares at me, letting her mouth drop open a little before she blinks.
“Give me that,” she says, prying the glass from my fingers.
“Be careful, Kitch. You don’t want to play drinking games with me,” I say.
“And why is that? Don’t think I could keep up?” she says.
I let out a booming laugh.
“I think you don’t understand how competitive I am. C’mon … don’t start something you can’t finish,” I say.
“Who says I can’t finish?”
