Page 20 of Married As Puck
“Don’t start,” I warn, pacing across the room. “She’s—she’s infuriating. Always asking questions that isn’t any of her business. I just got home, and it was—God, it was endless. ‘Why don’t you talk more? Why do you frown so much? Do you ever smile?’ Like she’s––”
Keith is still laughing. “So let me get this straight. She’s… what? Talking to you? That’s the great crime?”
“It’s not just talking. It’s like she enjoys needling me. She sits there, with that ridiculous little smile, acting like she’s got me all figured out. Like she thinks she’s clever.”
“She probably just thinks you’re grumpy.”
“I’m not grumpy.”
Keith actually snorts. “Man, you are grumpy. You walk around like a raincloud that just got divorced. No wonder she pokes at you. She’s probably trying to see if you’ll crack a smile before the world ends.”
I stop pacing, glare at the wall even though Keith can’t see me. “You think this is funny?”
“Uh, yeah,” he says, still laughing. “It’s hilarious. The almighty Cameron, brought to his knees by a sunshine girl with too many questions. I never thought I’d live to see it.”
“She’s not bringing me to my knees,” I bite out. “She’s… irritating. That’s it. I need her to get out like yesterday. Especially since she can’t seem to mind her business.”
There’s a rustle on the other end, then Keith sighs, his tone shifting. “Listen, man. You sound like you’re working yourself up over nothing. She’s probably just… being friendly.”
“She’s not friendly. She’s nosy.”
“Nosy, friendly—same thing when you don’t like people,” Keith teases. “Look, maybe she doesn’t mean anything by it. Maybe she’s just one of those people who can’t stand silence. You know—fillers. The opposite of you.”
I sink back onto the bed, pinching the bridge of my nose. Silence stretches between us.
“Cam,” Keith says, voice more serious now. “Maybe… she’s not the problem. Maybe you’re just so used to keeping everyone out that the second someone tries to get in, you act like they’ve committed treason.”
I let out a humorless laugh. “Don’t start psychoanalyzing me. One Brie is enough.”
“Fine, fine. But honestly? It looks like your focus has shifted off the bullshit with Jack, you know, and maybe her being there to distract you for a moment isn’t so bad.”
I groan, throwing an arm over my eyes. “You’re unbearable.”
“And you’re starting to obsess, man,” Keith shoots back, grinning in his voice. “I was just with you, and you called me just to rant about her. Don’t tell me that’s normal. Next thing I know, you’ll be memorizing every single word she says and reciting it back to me.”
I sit up abruptly, scowling. “Not happening.”
“Sure, sure, man. But hey, I don’t know what you believe in, but maybe this is happening for a reason.”
I sigh, tired of his woo-woo bullshit. “My landlord fucked up, that’s what happened.”
He changes the subject, and I’m relieved to get my mind off of what’s in my living room. I just want one moment for my life to feel fucking normal again, but that doesn’t seem possible.
9
Cameron’s roar rattles the walls like thunder rolling through the apartment. I definitely did not think he’d be out of his room anytime soon, but I guess he’s out there now and I have to listen to him.
“Brie!” he roars again, and I can feel the walls of the room vibrate.
I wince, biting down on the last bite of the chocolate bar I’d swiped from the fridge. Well—one of the last bites. Okay, fine, the very last bite, considering I raided everything edible in the man’s fridge. The leftover pasta, the yogurts, even that suspicious-looking pickle jar shoved in the corner. My stomach is smug and satisfied, but judging from the way Cameron stomps across the floor, his mood is the exact opposite. He’s just going to have to deal with it because I just saved us a whole week of having almost expired food lounging in the fridge begging to not be wasted.
I pat my mouth with the back of my hand and shuffle out of my bedroom, trying to look as innocent as humanly possible.
“What’s up?” I chirp, leaning on the banister like I’ve just wandered down from a nap.
He stands in the middle of the open-plan living room, tall, broad, furious—hands planted on his hips, chest rising and falling like he just skated a full game in double overtime. His dark hair is disheveled, eyes narrowed on me like I’m some particularly irritating rookie.
“You ate everything.” His voice is sharp, clipped, the kind of bark that probably terrifies his teammates in a locker room.
