“I know. But it makes me feel like less of a mooch, so humor me, okay? You’re already letting me crash at your place and driving me to and from work. The least I can do is pitch in for food.”
Grabbing the rest of the bags and grumbling, he leads the way back out to the car and we load everything into the trunk. Quickly sliding into the passenger seat, I rub my hands together, huffing into them.
“Here.” He passes his gloves my way, but I refuse to take them, sliding my hands beneath my thighs and sitting on them instead.
“Nah, you keep them. You’re softer than me,” I tease and he flicks my arm.
“Never nice to call a man soft to his face, you know. I mean, you’re not wrong, but also…” He flips me off and I burst out laughing.
Pulling out of the parking lot, we head back to the house, getting onto the main road through the tiny town that everything is centered around. The car slips on some black ice and I clutch the door as the anti-lock brakes kick on, sending the car into a lurching, stuttering skid. The front swerves to the side, but ultimately stops before we end up in someone’s front yard.
He corrects it, getting us back on the road as my blood pulses so loudly in my ears that it’s practically deafening. “You alright?”
I give him a thumbs up with my eyes shut, exhaling a shaky breath. “Fuck, don’t they salt out here?”
“The town is like ten streets max.” He sighs, sounding as annoyed as I am. “So no point in a salt truck like the bigger towns. Their reflexes are good enough that it’s not as much of a concern.”
Turning to gape at him, I gesture out the windshield. “That’s not how this works! Spin the wheel and slam on the brakes to your heart’s content; if you’re on ice, it isn’t going to do shit.”
“Well obviouslyIknow that, but try telling that to people that can walk away from a flaming car wreck with only a couple of scratches that heal by the end of the day.” Ian rakes a hand through his hair and my eyes are laser focused on it until he puts it back on the wheel, heart still sprinting a mile a minute.
“I don’t think there’s a single thing about winter that I like,” I admit, mentally cheering as he pulls into the driveway.
Parking the car, he turns to face me. “Not a single thing?”
Lifting my hand, I start ticking off on my fingers. “Cold, ice, wet, cold, sick, less food, cold.”
His lips twitch. “You mentioned ‘cold’ three times.”
Rolling my eyes, I open my door. “It warrants repeating.” Heading to the trunk, I slip and end up bruising my ass. “Motherfucker!”
Ian’s suddenly there, extending a hand to help me up. I’m starting to become accustomed to my abilities going haywire around him, though my energy seems to be veering away from ‘angry snakes’ to ‘drunk squirrel’ with an attention span to match. One second it’s churning beneath the surface of my skin, and the next it’s sparking out like it wants to give him rabies.
He shakes his hand out with a curse as I apologize profusely, reaching to grab as many bags as I can manage so that we only have to make one trip. Careful of each step now, we make our way inside and kick off our boots while juggling everything before finally making it into the kitchen.
“Bet I could change your mind.” He starts tossing things in the cabinet while I reach for the frozen items.
“About?”
“Winter. If you’re only looking for the bad shit, that’s all you’re going to find. But there’s nearly always at leastonegood thing to be found in any situation.”
Moving onto the refrigerated items, I bite back my instant retorts. If he’s saying that, it must mean he likes the season and I just made a jackass of myself shitting on something he enjoys. I don’t care who you are; any person that knows someone they care about likes something and insists on making them feel bad about it is a dick. And as absolutely ridiculous as it is that I already consider Ian one of those people, I do.
Time means nothing, actions do. You can love someone for years that makes you feel terrible and then meet someone that in two solitary days makes you happier just by showing they give a damn. Not saying I love the serial killer’s wet dream, but he’s already treated me better than the majority of people I’ve met, and I’m not going to sneeze at that by being defensive over a topic I’m not actually emotionally invested in defending.
“What are we betting?” Balling up the grocery bags, I stuff them all into one, opening the cabinet door beneath the sink and smirking to myself to already see a couple underneath that look the same.
“That depends; what do you hate doing the most?” Ian leans against the kitchen island with his arms crossed over his chest, just watching me.
“Folding laundry.” He bursts out laughing as I rush to defend my response. “I’m serious! You’re just going to pull it out and wear it anyway in a few days. Unless it’s some fancy outfit you’re scared to have a few wrinkles, there’s absolutely no reason not to have a clean laundry basket, and a dirty one. It’s far more logical and way less of a waste of time.”
He snorts. “Hate to tell you, but I don’t mind doing it. You can literally just flip on the TV and sit on the couch. It’s got to be the least offensive chore of being an adult.”
Rising to my feet, I raise my hands in surrender. “Hey, you asked. So you pick the terms.”
Mulling it over, he taps his finger against his cheek. “If by the end of the month I can’t find at leastonething you actually like about winter, then I need to buy you enough clothes to make you hate doing laundry.”
Narrowing my eyes at him, I shake my head. “Hard pass. Not about to lug that much stuff around, and completely see through your attempt to make this a win-win scenario for me.” His cheeks tint and I fight a smile. “How about loser has to do all of the chores around the house for a week?”
