“Better than an ulcer.”
That earns me a snort. “Debatable.”
“If you’d just agreed, it would be over.”
“I’m letting you stay here, aren’t I?” he points out. “They say actions speak louder than words.”
“I realize that, but a few nice words every now and then wouldn’t hurt.”
Landon studies me, eyes roaming over my face and down my ratty outfit. I try not to shift under his gaze—why does it always feel sointense?Like he sees right through me?—and study him right back. Unlike me, he looks extremely well rested and put together. At least one of us isn’t losing sleep over this situation, I guess.
“Fine,” he says finally. “But don’t start shoving cookies down my throat every chance you get. It’s annoying.”
I grin at him, feeling a little bit lighter than I did when I walked into the kitchen. "Noted.”
In the days following our truce, I go about my routine—run, work, bake, sleep—and Landon goes about his—gym, work, work, and work some more. Eli, who’s apparently started seeing some new mystery woman, is conspicuously absent from the house, along with his big, bubbly presence, which means it’s quiet most of the time, and I spend a lot of nights alone. Initially, I wondered if it would be awkward sharing a living space with only Landon, but in truth, I barely see him. He’s as much a workaholic as ever.
The main difference is the hole I feel at Mel’s absence. I always thought we’d have a chance to fix this strange, broken thing between us. That we could be close again, the way we were before Mom died. Now I know that was a lie.
Before, I was living with my sister and her boyfriend.
Now, I’m living with her ex.
Before, it didn’t seem strange to be sharing a space with a man.
Now, I’m constantly aware of his presence.
Before, I hated Landon.
Now, I’m making an active effort not to.
That’s what scares me. A part of me worries I’ll like him too much, and we can’t have that now, can we? We really,reallycan’t have that.
This evening I focus on the important task at hand, baking a dessert for Parker’s birthday. When he told me he wanted chocolate, I vowed to make the most show-stopping, spectacular chocolate cake he’s ever seen, and so far, it’s looking like a success.
I’m up to my elbows in cocoa powder when the garage door hums, followed by the beeping alarm as Landon enters the home. As his quiet, controlled footsteps infiltrate the house, I take quick stock of the messy kitchen. Flour’s spilled across the counter, dirty bowls are tossed in the sink, and all sorts of ingredients are strewn about. I wince, anticipating his reaction, but it’s too late to do anything about it now. Landon appears in the doorway moments later, and I flash him my biggest, brightest smile, praying he won’t see this mess and rescind my invitation to live here.
“Oh, hey. How was your day? I’m working on the cake for Parker’s party,” I say quickly, throwing in Parker’s name to hit Landon’s nearly nonexistent soft spot. “I just need to put these in the oven, and then I can clean up.”
He nods slowly, though I notice him eyeing the broken eggshells and splattered batter with narrowed eyes. I watch him struggle not to snap at me, and I wonder if he’s just insanely anal-retentive when it comes to clutter. “A chocolate cake, I presume?”
“Actually, it’s a chocolate, chocolate, chocolate, chocolate cake.”
Landon doesn’t appear impressed by my description. “That’s a lot of chocolate.”
"Four times the usual amount,” I tell him and start ticking them off on my fingers. “Cake, buttercream, ganache, decoration, all chocolate. Parker’s going to love it.”
“Hmm.”
Hmm.That’s the only reaction I get. I study him, study the way he regards the mixture in the bowl with blatant disgust, and I swear, I almost drop the spoon.
“No way. No fucking way. It’s not possible,” I say. Without warning, I lunge forward, raising the chocolate-batter-coated spoon to his face, and watch him flinch away like I’m making him smell a dirty diaper.
“Don’t do that,” he snaps, shooting me an annoyed glance.
“Don’t tell me you don’t like chocolate,” I say, the horror and distress evident in my voice. He shrugs, shifting further away from me, and I can’t help but gasp. “That’s. Not. Possible.”
“I don’t eat sugar.”
