“You make the sauce taste good. Not the other way around.” With that, he’s gone, following his sister into the kitchen.
“Whoa,” I whisper, my breath tottering. “Ignore it. You have to ignore it. He’s playing with you. So, two options—ignore him or get even.” I give myself a pep talk. I’ll see your $20 and raise you a hundred. No way in hell am I going to let him do this, treat me like a pawn in a sick little game. The hottie with the overweight newcomer. Sick fuck.
Slamming the door, I march into the kitchen. Two can play this game. Meeting them in the kitchen, I grab some plates, wine glasses, and silverware and set the dining table.
“It smells so good. I’m starving and would kill for a good New York pasta recipe,” Brenda says, taking a seat at the table. I feel Theo’s eyes on me from where he stands in the doorway of the kitchen. His arms are crossed against his chest, and if I didn’t know better, I would think he’s trying to read me. What does he want to know so damn bad? How I plan to make him eat rocks and regret ever messing with me?
“I hope it tastes good. I haven’t made this in forever, and I may have been the worse cook in that class,” I tell her, pushing past Theo, my shoulder hitting his bicep. As much as that was meant to be a passive-aggressive move, I won’t lie; it turned me on. This maddening man.
“I doubt that,” she calls after me, and I reach up to grab some wine. I feel him on me, a hard wall against my back and large, firm hands on my hips.
“You’re fucking with me. Enough,” he bites out, making my blood boil in a mixture of rage and arousal—a deadly combination—but I manage to hide it.
“What ever do you mean, Theo?” I turn and bat my lashes. If he thinks he is going to hurt me the way I was hurt in the past….
I stop. Not wanting to think about it. But if he thinks he can, he’s wrong. He stares down at me, a looming, towering wall of dominance, muscles, and cocky arrogance.
“Greens, I’ve tried to tell you to put down the wall and let me in. If you keep at this, I will take you over my knee, smack your ass raw, and make sure you know what my fucking intentions are.”
This.
This has my jaw nearly dislocating from my face.
“You’re sick. What is your angle here?” I place my hands on my hips, my chest rising and falling in tandem with his.
“You will find out soon enough, but I suggest you chill and stop fanning the damn fire. I can burn really fucking hot, puppet,” he seethes, and I give it right back.
Stepping up to him, my breasts now pressed against his upper abdomen, our height difference is striking in this position. “I’m not a puppet. I’m not a pawn. You think you’re going to win or even play this game? Think again.” Our breathing is so loud, so prominent, it’s the noisiest thing in the damn house. But there is something else lingering. It’s—
“Uh, is everything all right in here?” Brenda interrupts, and I snap back into place, turning and grabbing the wine, trying to cool my rising body temperature.
“Everything’s fine, sis. Just trying to get this stubborn woman to let me help her. Least I could do after she made us a delicious-smelling meal.”
“You can be on clean-up duty, since you’re so keen on helping,” I bite out, moving past him and handing Brenda the wine. “You pour.”
“Uh… okay.” She looks back and forth between us, clearly debating whether to say something or let it go. I’m thankful when she decides to ignore it and let it be.
We settle in and start eating. Brenda leads the conversation, but that tension from the kitchen still lingers, and it’s driving me mad. I’m aroused. Angry. And dare I say eager to play the game I just told him not to? He has a plan, and I know it’s most likely a cruel one at my expense, and that just makes me even more ready to play.
“So you haven’t found any more information on J.D. and why he never attempted to come and meet you?” Brenda pulls me from my wayward thoughts.
I clear my throat, needing the distraction and change of conversation. “No. Nothing. I have been working myself up to settling in here. It still feels wrong.”
“Why does it feel wrong?” she asks, taking a sip of wine.
“I didn’t know him at all. This was his home, and I feel like I’m disrespecting him while he is fresh in his grave.”
“How do you suppose that? He left it to you. Surely he knew you would see this place and not, not want to settle in and make it home.”