Page 18 of Married As Puck
She’s standing there barefoot, red shorts hugging her hips, spatula in hand. Like she belongs here. Like she hasn’t invaded the last square inch of sanity I had left.
“Never call me that. We’re not roommates.” I said with gritted teeth.
“Right, sorry. I think I should have called you housie.” She grins.
What the hell?
“What’s your name again?” My voice comes out annoyed, but I don’t regret it.
Her head snaps up. Eyes widen slightly, then narrow with something between amusement and disbelief. “Excuse me?”
“Your. Name,” I repeat, jaw tight. My gaze betrays me for a split second—slides down those bare legs before I drag it back up. Her expression tells me she noticed.
She tilts her head, lips twitching like she’s fighting a smile. “Wow. Can’t even remember a girls name that’s living in your house? You deserve an award.”
The mocking lilt in her tone makes my skin prickle.
“Answer the damn question,” I growl, heat spreading through my chest.
One perfectly arched brow rises. Her grip on the spatula doesn’t falter, not even a little. Utterly unbothered. “Fine. I guess I’ll tell youagain. Brie Sparks.”
Her name drops between us, too soft, too simple, not sharp enough for the annoyance clawing through me. It rolls in my head like an echo I didn’t ask for.
She leans on the counter, her smirk deepening. “And you’re Cameron Gray.”
Something cold slices through me.
“I looked you up,” she adds, almost too cheerfully. “Broody hockey god, suspended for attempted homicide on his own teammate.”
The words land like stones in my gut. My teeth clamp so tight my jaw aches. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even look sorry.
“Watch it,” I warn, voice low, simmering.
Her lips curve, not into kindness but into something that looks like she enjoys poking the bear. “Just saying. Now we’re not strangers anymore.”
My hands ache from how hard they’re clenched. The air in the kitchen feels heavy, suffocating. I need to get out before I do something reckless.
And I hate that it does.
She keeps looking at me like I’m supposed to say something else, like I owe her another line of conversation. I don’t. I’ve said enough already. But she leans forward, elbows on her knees, eyes bright like she can see through me.
“So,” she says, drawing out the word, “is this your thing? Glare at people until they melt? Because if it is, I should warn you that I don’t melt. I’m more of an ice cream. I’ll just get messy.”
I blink at her. Who even talks like that?
“You talk too much,” I mutter.
“And you don’t talk enough.” She shrugs like it’s a fair trade. “Balance.”
My jaw tightens. I don’t like the way she says that. Like we’re equals. Like she knows me. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Yeah,” she says lightly, “well, you’re easier to read than you think.”
She grins at me before walking back to the living room.
There’s a flicker in my chest I ignore as I followed after her. I shouldn’t even still be standing here. I should’ve left the second I saw her. But my eyes keep drifting over her messy bun, oversized sweatshirt, that restless bounce of her foot like she’s never learned how to be still. She’s chaos wrapped in skin.
And for some reason, she’s aimed all of that chaos at me.
