“You’re stubborn.”
“You like it.”
His eyes flick toward me. Heat flashes there before he looks awayagain.
Oh, damn.
He clears his throat roughly. “Go sit down before you make your ankle worse.”
“I’m helping.”
“I’m fully capable.”
“So am I.” I give him a cheeky grin. “I’m emotionally supporting the cooking process.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It absolutely is.”
He mutters something beneath his breath that sounds suspiciously like, “brat.”
Butterflies attack my stomach.
Dinner eventually ends up on the table despite our constant arguing.
And honestly? I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed something this simple so much.
Halfway through dinner, I subtly loosen the straps on my boot beneath the table. Relief floods through my sore, stiff ankle.
Unfortunately? Daltyn notices everything.
His eyes narrow. “I knew you overdid it.”
I blink innocently. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Peyton.”
“I’m literally sitting.”
“And you just loosened the straps. I heard the Velcro.”
I grab a piece of bread and throw it at him.
His reflexes are annoyingly fast. He catches it one-handed, then cocks an eyebrow at me.
Uh-oh.
I don’t like the mischievous look on his face. At all.
Daltyn slowly sets the bread down. “That’s it.”
My eyes widen. “What?—”
He’s already moving.
I squeal as he scoops me out of the chair effortlessly. “Daltyn!”
“You’ve chosen violence.”
