Page 78 of One More Kiss

“Until it’s finished brewing,” he finished. “Five years, peaches, and you’re still as predictable.”

Enough was enough.

“This is my house.” I slid off the stool and smoothed my shirt over my hips, straightening it. “Whatever reason you’re here for, you can go. I got this.”

Ethan watched me silently as I waited for his response. He took a drink of his coffee, his eyes hard and his expression closed off. He had one hell of a poker face. Always had. The silence stretched, and I hated that it was making me nervous.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, just say it,” I snapped irritably.

He took another drink of coffee and placed the cup to the side as he moved to the fridge and got the milk. Wordlessly he made a second cup of coffee, and when the milk was back in the fridge, he picked up the second cup, and in three steps he was in front of me, placing the cup on the counter.

“Thanks,” I mumbled as I reached for it. When I went to pull it away, his grip tightened, preventing me from taking it. I looked up at him, and my words of protest got stuck in my throat.

“This may be your house,” he told me quietly, “but this is my home.” The low, serious tone was more disconcerting than had he yelled. “You haven’t been here, I have. I’ve been here, running this ranch, working this land, taking care of my home. Not your house. My home. Donna’s home. So don’t you dare”—his hand tightened on the cup, and I was caught speechless in his angry stare—“think you can come in here after five years and tell me that I can go.”

“Eth—”

“You got this?” His sneer was ugly on his face. “You haven’t got anything; you haven’t had anything since you left here like a coward five years ago. Your aunt was dying, and where the fuck were you, Peyton?”

“I didn’t know—”

“No, you didn’t know, because you didn’t ask. You heard what you wanted to hear on a phone call you made, what, once every two months?”

This wasn’t fair. “Donna died suddenly.” My own anger was rising. “How was I supposed to get here for someone who died within twelve hours of being sick? No one told me she was taken ill; no one told me until they were telling me she was gone.”

Ethan moved back a step, finally letting the cup go, not noticing when it spilled over my hand because I had still been subconsciously pulling it from his hold. “Ow,” I hissed as he walked past me. Spinning on my feet, I watched him pick up a luggage bag and sling it over his shoulder.

He was going anyway? Why was he being such a tool, then?

When he climbed the stairs, I stayed put for a minute, maybe two minutes if I was being really generous with the speed in which I counted to sixty. Taking the steps two at a time, I hurried after him and got to the landing just as he swung the door to my bedroom closed. Undeterred, I pushed it open and saw him unzipping the bag and pulling out clothes.

“You’re unpacking?”

“Deadly observation skills.”

“Why are you unpacking?”

“Because I just got home, and I have dirty laundry.” He tossed another shirt on the pile on the bed.

“Where were you? And how long have you lived alone with my aunt?”

Ethan turned his head to look at me, one eyebrow raised. “I was out of town, and I’ve lived in this house for over a year now.”

A year? That didn’t make sense. “Were you homeless?”

“Yeah, sure.” He moved past me and walked into the bathroom. He came back with the hamper and started loading it.

“‘Yeah, sure?’ Are you being flippant? Smart? Funny?” Nothing made sense. “Why don’t you try using your words, or will I get you some crayons if the words are too big for you?”

Large hands stilled in the pile of laundry as he raised his head slightly to look at me from under his lashes. I swallowed and took a step back.

“I’ll take some crayons.” He drew himself up to his full height, and I watched as his broad shoulders squared as his back straightened. “I’ll draw you a picture. Teacher. Would you like that? Would you understand better if you saw it on paper in a sketch?” His head cocked slightly as he watched me. “Will me showing you how much pain she was in, for how long she was in pain, sink it into your selfish little brattish head better? That this ranch was too much for her? That this house, with its stairs and small bathroom, was too much for her? I can draw you a fucking picture book if it means you’ll shut your mouth. Until you understand your aunt was dying long before five days ago. I’ll paint it in neon if needed, how much she worried about upsetting your life by telling you she needed help and she didn’t want to live here in your house anymore but knew how much these four walls meant to you. Your childhood home. Which you didn’t seem to care about, but she did. For you.” Ethan took a deep breath. “So yeah.” He nodded quickly as he wet his bottom lip, his face twisting in a grimace. “You go fetch me some crayons, you condescending smartass, and while you’re there, find some fucking humility; you seem to have lost yours along the way.” He walked past me with the hamper, careful not to touch me, and it felt worse than had he slapped me.

Nothing he said was making sense.

“Oh, and Peyton?” Ethan called over his shoulder, and I turned to look at his retreating back. “The groceries are for me.”

For him?

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