Page 22 of Nerdelicious
Cluck Norris?it reads.
A grin spreads across my face. “Yeah. I named all the chickens.”
He lifts his brows, dark eyes probing and steady. I still can’t believe we’re actually having a two-way conversation.
“And there’s Kylo Hen. She’s down there being... uh,” I tilt my head toward the window, “courted. There’s also Hen Solo. Princess Laya.” I smirk. “Get it?Lay-a?”
He doesn’t make any response, so I shrug. “Yeah that one isn’t as good. Oh, and Emily Spinach.”
He frowns, then sticks out his hand and after a beat, I hand him the book. He writes something and passes it back.
Emily Spinach isn’t a Star Wars reference.
“No. It’s the name Alice Roosevelt gave her pet snake. She was Teddy Roosevelt’s daughter.”
He stares at me. His head cocks to one side.
The notebook moves back and forth again.
Why?
“Why did I name one of the chickens after a dead president’s daughter’s pet snake?” I clarify.
He nods.
“Because it’s funny and random and I find it amusing.”
Beast, however, doesn’t smile. I shift from my crouched position to sit cross-legged on the floor. I no longer have a view of the chicken liaison, but Beast can keep an eye on them. Even sitting, he’s tall enough to see out the hole in the door.
“Alice Roosevelt was a total badass,” I explain. “In a time when women couldn’t even show their ankles without rebuke, she was smoking, jumping off boats, and riding in cars with men. She was banned from the White House after her father’s tenure was over by not just one but two subsequent presidents. She’s basically my idol. She gave zero fucks.”
He watches me with wary eyes like maybe I will flaunt my ankles at any minute. Which is too late since I’m wearing a tank top and cut-off jeans.
I fidget, sitting up to glance out the window and down at the chickens again, anything to escape the heat of his gaze.
Hm. Doesn’t look like Cluck Norris is getting anywhere. He’s prancing around Kylo Hen and she keeps skittering away.
Beast has his notebook in one hand, his pencil in the other hanging loosely from his fingers.
“It’s my parents’ fault,” I say.
He raises one brow.
“They always talked about random stuff like that at the dinner table. Emily Spinach, Emily Dickinson. Lots of... Emilys.”
He makes no response. Not even a nod of acknowledgment. I turn my gaze to the corner where someone scratched a formula of some kind. I squint at it. The Pythagorean theorem? Definitely Reese’s handiwork.
I wish he would ask me something else. But he doesn’t. So of course I have to fill the silence.
“I’m sorry about last night.” At least now I have the opportunity to apologize. And if he wants to tell me how terrible I am, he’ll have the means. “I shouldn’t have tried to... do whatever I did to your chin.” Heat fills my face. This is terrible, but it needs to be said. “It was wrong and I shouldn’t have tried to force you to do something you didn’t want to do. You should have thrown me out with Slobber Man. I deserved it.” I count the lines in the wooden plank underneath me, unable to witness his nonreaction.
But he’s not unresponsive. He’s writing something. I hold my breath, waiting. The scratching of the pencil will render my judgment. The scribbling stops and after a few long seconds when he still hasn’t handed over the notebook, I risk a glance.
He’s holding the paper up, the words facing me.I can’t be forced. Have you seen me?
I choke on a laugh and meet his dark eyes. There’s something in there I haven’t seen before. He’s always big and dark and difficult to read, but right now there’s a spark of humor crinkling the edges.
He writes some more and then turns the notebook back around.
