There's a beat of silence and then Seven twists, his brows drawn as he sniffs the air. "What is that smell? What did you order?"
Atticus grabs the bags from the table before Seven can tear into them. "Hey, don't get excited. That's not for you."
"Dude, come on, I can smell it."
Atticus gives Seven a warning look to back off and then starts to lift the takeout containers out of the plastic bags. From the first bag, he pulls out three identical white clamshell containersand pushes two toward Elijah and Seven, who open them as if expecting a prize only to find fool's gold instead.
I'm confused at first, because, like Seven, I cansmellthe fries. I know that smell. It's Chick-fil-A. Without a doubt.
My mouth waters as Atticus lifts the white bag from the second plastic one, and I see the logo. From the corner of my eye, Seven's throat bobs as he swallows, and Elijah follows suit.
But Atticus doesn't seem to notice as he pulls a drink cup from the bag, too, and then comes around the table and sets both down in front of me.
I look at him. I look at the bag.
And I know I am fucked.
And I knowheknows I'm fucked.
There's the barest hint of a smile wriggling on his lips, dying to show me how smug he is at his success.
I lick my lips and swallow, realizing that for a second, I forgot all about the impending doom of meeting their archnemesis in the face of crispy fried chicken tenders. Atticus pretends not to watch me as he goes back to take a seat opposite me at the table and digs into his grilled chicken salad.
But I know he's watching as I open the bag and pull out spicy chicken strips, a chicken sandwich, waffle fries,andmac and cheese. And the drink isn't soda, it's a chocolate shake. My favorite. Seven must've told him.
Elijah and Seven are still staring. I can feel their eyes on me, but when I look over at them, they both shoot their attention elsewhere as if they weren't drooling all over my meal.
I snort and shake my head.
"Fine," I say dramatically, deciding to enjoy this with them before the anxiety can creep back in. "I guess I can share."
"You don't have to," Elijah is quick to say, but when I hold up a spicy chicken strip for him, he's powerless against it.
He eyes the bag. "Is there any Chick-fil-A sauce?"
I pass him the strips and sauce and push the waffle fries to Seven—I saw him eyeing them.
And as I unwrap the chicken sandwich and groan around the first bite, I try not to look at Atticus, but it's impossible not to notice it. No man has ever looked as happy eating a roast chicken saladsansdressingas he does right now.
"Hey," he growls at Seven, who's almost polished off all the waffle fries already. "Save some for her, asshole."
The clock on my phone says it's nearly two in the morning, but I can't fucking sleep.
I groan, turning over onto my other side to try to get comfortable. Fail spectacularly.
My gaze snags on the nightstand and I bite my lip.
I don't care what the note says.
I don't need to read it.
It doesn't matter.
Atticus is right about that—it won't change anything.
It might piss me off even more.
I flip back around and yank the covers higher, closing my eyes.
