Page 6 of Better Hate than Never

“Try actually listening this time,” she snaps. Stepping closer, she glances both ways, looking to see if anyone’s coming. Voices waft from the kitchen in the back of the house, where Thanksgiving meal prep is in full swing. “I wasn’t exactly honest last night,” she says. “I did mess up my shoulder.”

“When you ran into me.”

“Youran intome, jackass. But no, before that.”

I search her eyes. There’s something else going on. “Then why wasn’t it in a sling last night?”

Shifting on her feet, she sighs impatiently. “It’s complicated.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Indulge me. I think I can handle a ‘complicated’ explanation.”

“I don’toweyou an explanation, complicated or otherwise, Petruchio.”

“You do if you don’t want your parents to know you werewandering the city alone last night with your noise-canceling headphones on and no sling in sight.”

She glares up at me. “Are youblackmailingme, you motherfu—”

“Who’s there?” Maureen says from the kitchen. It’s louder, closer when she calls, “Christopher?”

I smile serenely down at Kate. “You were saying?”

“Fine,” she hisses, frantically glancing toward the doorway her mother will walk through at any moment. “I tripped and broke my shoulder a couple months ago. It’s healed, just sore still, okay? Now, keep your mouth shut about last night.”

Our eyes hold. I fold my arms across my chest. “I’ll keep quiet, but it’s going to cost you more than an explanation.”

She looks like she wants to strangle me.

Shit, I’m smiling. There’s something wrong with me.

“What do you want?” she says between gritted teeth.

I stare at her arm, pinned against her body, and try to ignore my twisting insides.

I want to know exactly what she was doing and how endangered she was when she broke her shoulder. But I shouldn’t. Because that’s not how we work. I don’t think about Kate when she’s gone. I don’t worry or care, and I sure as shit don’t need to know how she hurt her shoulder.

Forcing a wide, lazy smile, I tell her, “I’ll collect my due when it suits me.”

“Great.” Sarcasm drips from her voice. “Extortion. Can’t wait.”

“Happy Thanksgiving!” Maureen says, strolling into the foyer and wrapping me in a lavender-scented hug. Those blue-gray-green eyes that she gave her daughters sparkle as she offers me a distracted smile, her attention drawn toward the kitchen, where an oven timer has started beeping. “What were you doing, dawdling in the hallway like a guest?” she asks.

“I was cornered by the Kat.” I jerk my head toward Kate, who glares at me viciously.

Maureen glances between us and puts her hands on her hips. “Is it too much to ask you two to get along for once?”

“Yes,” Kate grumbles, spinning on her heel and storming past us toward the kitchen.

“Well.” Maureen sighs wearily as we follow in her daughter’s wake. “I suppose the holidays are all about tradition.”

“Christopher doesn’t need a holiday tradition to be an asshole,” Kate calls over her shoulder. “He’s an asshole every day of the year.”

“And you’d know because you’ve been around so much?” I ask dryly.

Without looking back, Kate flips me a middle finger high in the air.

“Katerina!” Maureen chides. “You’ve just volunteered for after-dinner dish duty.”

Kate has to have whiplash from how violently she glances back. “Mom! I have a busted shoulder.”

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