“How about I make you something to eat?” she asks in an amused tone, cutting me off.
***
I'm not sure why I agreed to stay. I have no idea. All I know is that I accepted her offer and we both rapidly got changed and cleaned up. So far, for the last thirty minutes, I've been sitting at her dining table, waiting as she cooks.
Her dining room is gigantic; every single room in her house is almost the size of my home. The dining room has high, emerald green walls—the decor is a rusty gold and brown. The dark green marble dining table is long; like something the royal family would eat on. I'm sitting right at the end, the closest to the kitchen.
Who would have thought a rich spoiled brat like her would know how to cook? I always assumed having maids would have rendered her useless. Then again, she did tell me she gave them a few weeks off. Her mother is away too, so does she just stay in this massive house alone? That must be so lonely.
The sound of footsteps pulls me out of my trance and I look up to see Juliette walking into the dining room with two plates—even her plates look expensive.
Before she places anything down, she looks at me. “Do you want anything to drink—”
“I don't drink,” I interrupt her, I don't want her bringing out her hundredth bottle of tequila.
She looks at me like I've said something utterly idiotic. “I know. I'm asking if you want water or like a coke or something?”
“No, I'm fine. Thanks,” I say and she nods, putting both plates down. She sits right opposite me and I look at her quizzically. “How do you know I don't drink?” I ask.
As far as I'm concerned, the only people who know my aversion to alcohol are my friends and my brother.
“I've literally never seen you touch the stuff. Even at parties you're always drinking water or that god-awful Red Bull.” She visibly grimaces and I stifle a chuckle.
She really does know me, so much so that she knows exactly what I'm drinking at any party, which is even more impressive because we rarely go to the same parties.
I shake my head of any thoughts and I look down at my plate, it looks appetising. It seems fairly simple too, just veggie pasta. I pick up the golden fork from next to me and I'm about to dig in until she clears her throat. I look up and she's looking at me expectantly.
The realization hits me. “Thank you.” I mentally facepalm for not thanking her for the food sooner. I can't forget basic manners just because I hate her, Miss Kim would kill me.
Juliette rolls her eyes in response and now I'm actually confused, what does she want?
“Why don't you drink?” she asks me suddenly and randomly.
“Why are you asking me that?” I retort, putting my fork down.
“I just cooked you a meal for free, so think of answering my question as the payment.” She shrugs, not even touching her own food yet.
I can see right through her bullshit right now. This isn't her usual teasing. This is more than just subtle curiosity; she wants to know. She always seems to want to know more about me.
Normally, I despise telling her, so why is my mouth opening before I can stop it?
“My father was an alcoholic. It's hereditary, so I don't want to risk it,” I state bluntly and watch as her eyes slowly widen.
I see that look on her face, first there's shock, probably because I never speak about my parents with most people, especially her. Second, there's pity and I loathe it. I'm so used to seeing that expression on people’s faces. I've seen it my whole life.
Who cares that my father was an alcoholic? That's only the tip of the iceberg, there's so many worse things about him and my life that I wouldn't even dream of telling her.
Her eyes soften. “What about—”
“Don't ask me about anything else,” I warn her, but it almost comes out like a plead.
I don't want to do this. As much as my mind somehow feels safe, almost wanting me to tell Juliette, I'm still not going to. That's my own business, my own problems.
Juliette nods in understanding and I'm baffled. This is the same the girl who is notorious for pushing my buttons and never relenting. Who is this girl and what has she done with Juliette Kingston?
I pick my fork back up and look down at the plate, ready to eat, but she interrupts me yet again. “It's just some pasta. I'm not in the habit of cooking, so it won't be perfect—”
“I'm sure it's fine.” I cut off her nervous rambling softly. It's endearing; it really is. However, I'm so hungry, so she needs to shut her mouth for two seconds and actually let me eat.
