She nods, flushing. "I think I'm still a little drunk."
Smirking, I add some olive oil and the egg mixture to the pan. "Tequila will do that."
"I'm going to need some more disgusting coffee before I can start trying to figure out where I'm going to go. Maybe Beck's house, as long as I wouldn't add to his stress."
"Yeah... about that." I stir the eggs and pop the toast down in the toaster. "Beck woke me up this morning. Rosie's sick."
Mollie looks stricken. "Is she okay?"
"No idea. He was taking her in to see her doctor this morning. He mentioned that she'd been crying all night and suggested that you stay here."
She narrows her gaze. "Where's here?"
I spread my hands. "With me."
"You must be kidding." She laughs.
I shake my head. "Totally serious."
Her expression contorts. "But you hate me."
"What? No I don't."
"Yes, you do. I piss you off."
"You irk me. But that doesn't mean I'm going to make you leave. Where would you go?"
"I could... uh... get a hotel until I figure something out. Or, ohhh, I'll Airbnb a place."
"In Seattle? You're going to splash out to rent a place that's close enough to work?"
That gives her pause. "It'll just be for a week until I find something more within my budget."
I slowly shake my head. "I promised Beck that I'd take care of you for the next few days. You're not going anywhere."
"Thorne." She crosses her arms. "You're not the boss of me."
"For the next few days, I am. You're not going to run off without a plan or a place to stay. You'll stay here where I can keep an eye on you."
"And if I refuse?"
It takes everything in me not to smirk at her. She's got nothing, no one to turn to but me, the guy that annoys her to no end. But still, she keeps giving me attitude.
I can't lie. I'm impressed. I lean in and say, “You won’t refuse.”
Stop fighting it, Mollie."
She pushes her cheek out with her tongue and glares at me, but doesn't have a comeback. I serve her breakfast and eat mine standing at the counter, not really making eye contact. I hear her muttering under her breath occasionally, but she doesn't try to engage me otherwise.
"I'm going to feed Gordie." I nod to the French doors behind her, where the dog has his nose pressed against the glass. "When you're ready to go to your apartment and gather some of your stuff, let me know."
Mollie looks pissed. "Fine."
"And there should be some ibuprofen for that hangover in the guest bathroom. Take some. You're pissier than usual today."
As I walk away, I'm aware of the way she flips me the double bird. God help the man who settles down with her; he's got one hell of a rollercoaster ride in his future.
An hour and a half later, we're standing in her wrecked apartment. The dreary, drippy aftermath of the sprinklers still leaks down the walls, pooling on the bed and all over her floor. Her small collection of books is ruined. The kitchen is a wreck. Hurricanes have left less damage in their wake than these fire-preventing sprinklers.
