Page 39 of Twisted Shot
“God,” Natalie groans, her face mashed into her folded arms on the kitchen island. “I feel like I was run over by the team bus. Twice. And the second time, it backed up just to be sure.”
Jake doesn’t look up from the stove. “Probably because you split a bottle of wine with Mila before the party and then drank Jesse’s radioactive jungle punch all night.”
Natalie lifts her head to glare at him from behind her crooked sunglasses. “I had one glass.”
“You had three, and then lectured Jesse about the dangers of binge drinking while pouring your fourth.”
Natalie groans louder, sinking deeper into her arms. “Oh my god, you’re right. I am a bad guardian.”
Mila, perched on a barstool with her mug of coffee hugged to her chest, smiles into her cup.
“Nat, you’re not a bad guardian. You’re making up for lost time. You didn’t get your wild twenties, remember? You were too busy raising Jesse and keeping him from lighting household appliances on fire.”
Jake raises an eyebrow. “That happened?”
Natalie lifts one limp hand and waves it dismissively. “It was a small fire. Burrito. Microwave. He didn’t read the instructions.”
“That sounds like our Jesse,” Jake replies dryly.
“I remember that,” Mila says, sipping her coffee. “You didn’t let him use the microwave for a month.”
Natalie groans again. “I should’ve said no to the punch.”
“But then we wouldn’t have that beautiful moment where you tried to confiscate Jesse’s beer while slurring something about being a role model,” Jake adds. “Truly inspirational.”
“I hate you,” Natalie mutters into the counter.
Jake leans down to kiss the top of her head. “You love me.”
Mila watches them, her chest tugging a little. Their easy affection. The bickering. The well-worn comfort that comes from loving someone through all their worst hangovers. It makes her ache in places she usually keeps locked up.
She shakes her head and turns to Jake, who’s somehow matching Gordie Howl’s energy as the puppy tears through the kitchen, with a crumpled paper towel clenched triumphantly in his crooked little jaws.
“How are you this fine?” she asks, squinting at him.
Jake flips a pancake with flair and grins. “Because I’m built different. Also, I had two beers and a Gatorade. My body is a temple.”
Mila snorts. “You’re the most annoying temple I’ve ever met.”
“Yet she keeps coming back to worship,” Jake says, winking at Natalie.
They both groan as Jake slides plates in front of them, piled high with pancakes, scrambled eggs and bacon.
Natalie lifts her head, eyes bleary and face creased from the countertop. “Wait, where did you go last night? One second you were with us, the next—poof. Gone.”
Mila freezes, mug halfway to her mouth. Her spine goes ramrod straight and she blinks hard, needing a second to reset her expression. The mug finally makes it to her lips, but she doesn’t drink—just hides behind the rim, staring into the dark liquid.
“I needed some air.”
Which isn’t a lie. She did need air.
She just happened to get it while making out with a masked stranger in the shadows of a gazebo, letting him wreck her with his mouth and his hands and his voice, like some kind of sexed-up fever dream.
But she still doesn’t know who he is.
And until she does, she’s not telling Natalie. Or Jake. They wouldn’t understand.
“I didn’t realize I had to file a missing persons report,” she says lightly, glancing at Natalie overher coffee mug.
