Energy renewed, I run to the store for ingredients and then start prepping a fudge recipe I’ve been wanting to tackle for a while. After hunting through cabinets for a saucepan, I measure out the sugar, evaporated milk, butter, and salt, turning up the heat to bring the mixture to a boil. As I’m stirring the contents together, my phone beeps with a notification, so I step away to see I have one new follower on my Instagram account.
I recognize the man in the profile picture and the handle.
@christian.h.mccoy
Not a minute later, he comments on my photo.
Screw the recipe. I’ll eat you right up.
And then sends me a direct message.
Christian:I’m done playing. When’s your night off? I’m taking you to dinner.
What happens next is completely my fault, and I take full responsibility. I’m so distracted by his gross comment and his presumptuous message that I forget about the highly flammable ingredients on the stove. It’s not long before the earsplitting screech of the smoke alarm blares through the kitchen, and I drop my phone so I can remove the burnt mixture off the heat. Smoke alarm still ringing, I throw open windows and doors to get some air flowing into the stuffy room, then grab a dishtowel and start fanning the alarm. The only problem is that the ceiling’s so high it’s not making much of a difference. Panicked and thinking fast, I pull over one of the island stools, hoisting myself up on it to try to reach the button.
Except I’m too damn short.
It doesn’t matter, though. Soon enough, I hear Landon’s footsteps barreling down the stairs, and he emerges into the kitchen dressed in sweatpants and nothing else. I can’t help it. I gape. I gape for two whole seconds before averting my eyes, becausewhoa. The manischiseled. And masculine. And sculpted. And all the things my brain imagined him to be before he opened his mouth and turned out to be a complete asshole.
“I can’t reach it!” I shout, scurrying down off the stool and gesturing to the smoke detector. “The ceilings in this house are built for a giant!”
Landon glares at me before climbing onto the stool himself. I swear I don’t ogle the way his arm muscles flex as he reaches toward the alarm, or gawk at the way his abs tighten as he balances on the stool, or admire the way those sweatpants hug his surprisingly muscular thighs and hang dangerously low on his hips. I don’t do any of that because that would be weird and wrong and inappropriate. And also, I hate him. And after today, he definitely hates me.
He fiddles with the button for a second, and finally,finally, the alarm stops. I let out a huge sigh of relief, sagging against the counter, waiting for my pulse to calm down.
“Thank you,” I say, as Landon hops down from the stool. “Seriously. I swear, I’ve never had that happen before. Totally my mistake, but damn, that alarm isloud. I guess it kind of has to be in a house this giant, though, right?”
“You’re done,” is all he says.
I shake my head, staring mournfully at all of the ingredients I wasted. “No, I’ll have to remake the mixture. But I’m out of evaporated milk, so I’ll have to run back to the store.”
“No. I mean, you’redone. In this kitchen.”
My eyes snap to his as my face drains of color. “What?”
“Look at this disaster,” he snaps.
I glance around the kitchen at the ingredients and tools strewn about and give Landon a sheepish smile. “Okay, yes. It looks bad now, but I always clean up afterward. I just get in the zone. No time for cleaning in the moment.”
“I don’t care,” he says, nostrils flaring. “You could have set the house on fire. Did you forget you had something on the stove? What were you doing? Tanning? Lounging? Running your mouth off to my father again?”
My smile falters as I process his words, and my temperature rises, heat flooding my cheeks. In my head, I count to three, doing my best to ignore the sudden pressure behind my eyes. I’m not good with anger, nor being the target of it, which is probably part of the reason I have an innate desire to be liked. Ihatebeing yelled at, scolded, or embarrassed, and though I’m not proud of it, my immediate reaction is waterworks. When I’m angry—tears. When I’m embarrassed—tears. When I’m frustrated, hurt, anxious, upset—tears.
I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not let this prick see me cry.
“I didn’t run my mouth off to your father,” I say, cringing at the false note in my voice. “I’m sorry if it came off that way, but he asked me questions, and I just answered them.”
How was I supposed to know that Mel’s narrative was different from my own? How was I supposed to know she’d been putting on some weird front for Landon and his family? I’m not a mind reader.
Landon appears unimpressed by my explanation, eyes narrowed and mouth pressed thin. "So, you always beg strangers for a ride and tell them every intimate detail about your life and family, then? Or just the wealthy ones?”
His words hit me like a punch to the gut, and my voice comes out in a pathetic-sounding squeak. “What are you implying?”
He snorts, eyeing me with an expression that looks a lot like disdain. “You and your sister really are cut from the same cloth, aren’t you?”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“The lies. The bullshit. The constant ass-kissing. It must be genetic.”
