“You’re impossible to talk to.” He turns on his heel and waltzes out of the kitchen.
I barely have time to let out a breath before he stomps back in like a petulant child.
“I’m still hungry,” he says, pulling the fridge open. He lets out a frustrated groan at the state of it. “And we have no food. Great.”
I shrug. “What am I supposed to do about that? I’m not your mother.”
“I’m not asking you to make me anything.”
“Good! Because I’m not!” I shout. Now it’s my turn to march out of the kitchen. “You’re sleeping in the guest room tonight.”
“Gladly.”
His blasé attitude doesn’t sit well with me. “Go to hell, Renner,” I call over my shoulder.
“Yeah, I’ll save you a seat,” he calls after me.
SEVENTEEN
This is officially the longest day of my life.
My body is drained. My eyes are sore. I need rest. But my mind won’t stop racing through all the events of the day. From waking up to a naked Renner, to biking to Mom’s work, to school, to the party, to running from the cops, to a brutal fight with Renner.
It doesn’t help that Renner is downstairs loudly banging pots and pans. Whatever he’s making, it smells delicious. Hearty. I realize I’m hungry for something substantial; I’ve barely eaten anything other than snacks at school and dip at Ollie’s party. But I’d rather starve than go back downstairs and face him.
The fact is, I’m embarrassed. I owe him an apology for blowing up. I didn’t intend to lose my temper. He didn’t deserve it. He’s in the same boat as me, technically. Not to mention, being angry at each other isn’t going to help our situation.
A soft knock at the bedroom door interrupts my thoughts.
“Come in,” I say, bracing myself.
Renner opens the door, juggling two heaping bowls of mac ’n’ cheese sprinkled with what appears to be bread crumbs and pepper. There’s steam billowing from the bowl. It reminds me of the mac-’n’-cheese-themed Valentine’s Day card I found in my office.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d want some,” he says. His expression is relaxed, normal.
I eye the bowls like a starved hyena. “You just whipped this up?”
“Found a couple boxes in the back of the pantry. They might be expired. So eat at your own risk,” he warns, handing me the bowl.
I take it gingerly, my annoyance fading. The ceramic is piping hot on my fingertips. Somehow, this makes me feel even worse. “Thank you.”
When our eyes meet again, my heart lodges in my throat. I know I have to apologize, but the words won’t leave my lips. Frankly, I’m just exhausted from the day, and from him. I hate how good he is in every situation, even one as ridiculous as this. I hate how amazing that kiss was. And I hate how he knows exactly how to push my buttons. And I’m afraid if I say anything else, he’ll push yet another one.
I shove my feelings down and eagerly heap a forkful in my mouth, delighting in all its glory. Boxed mac ’n’ cheese has never tasted so divine. I pause and eye him suspiciously; he hasn’t taken a bite yet. “You haven’t laced this, have you?”
“With what?” he asks innocently.
“Dunno. Rat poison. Bleach. Heavy drugs?”
“I searched the house high and low for poison, but looks like we’re all out,” he says, deadpan.
Poison or not, I’m too hungry to care. I take another giant forkful, contemplating whether I should tell him about the cheesy (pun intended) Valentine’s Day card he gave me. “This is ...”
He gives me his cocksure grin and watches me devour it. “Told you I can make a mean mac ’n’ cheese.”
“How do you even know I was going to compliment it? What if I was about to say it was disgusting?”
“You practically moaned when you took that first bite. I knew you liked it.” The tips of his ears are pink.
