I load my plate with two slices from my box, along with the ranch cup.
“Disgusting,” he mutters, and I can’t help but laugh when his lip curl at the sight of the pineapple sitting proudly atop my pizza.
“I promise it's good,” I tell him, dipping it into the ranch before shoving half the slice into my mouth, sauce dripping down my chin in the most unladylike fashion imaginable.
I moan again, this time at the perfectly balanced blend of spicy and sweet. Not to mention, hot, gooey cheese.Yum.The pizza and the baby snuggles are honestly the only high points of the night.
He lets out a throaty groan. “I swear to fucking god, Scarlet.”
“Problem?” I arch one brow as I glance his way. I’m not sure what crawled up his ass, but he’s particularly snippy tonight. Maybe he needs to get laid.
“Nope.” He bites out the word before grabbing a slice from his box. “No problem.”
“Great.” I roll my eyes and settle back against the overstuffed cushions. “TV while we eat or no?”
Wordlessly, he grabs the remote and hits play, resuming ourEnemies & Escrowmarathon.
“What's in there?” I ask, nodding toward the unopened, round tin in the center of the coffee table.
“Dessert.” He reaches for it, peeling back the lid. “Figured maybe it'd make you sweeter.”
My eyes tighten at the corners as a sugary-sweet cinnamon scent fills the room. “Right.” I nod, suddenly at the end of my rope. “Because I'm so miserable I need help being sweet. Got it.”
He sighs and rubs the back of his neck, like dealing with me is just too much. Which is a response I’m used to. Somehow, I’malwaystoo much. “I was just fucking with you, Scar. Don’t be so sensitive.”
I wish it was that easy—that I could turn it off. That I could be the ice queen everyone seems to think I am and let his callous words roll off my back, but for some reason, tonight… I can’t.
“Hey, no worries.” My voice warbles, but I push forward anyway. “I always prefer knowing exactly where I stand with someone.”
He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but no words come out, which is fine by me, because I have nothing else to say to him.
Paying him no mind, I grab my phone and check the time. “James needs his bottle.” I gather my trash and stand. “Thanks for dinner.”
NINE
ELLIS
For the second time tonight,I watch as Scarlet hightails it to the kitchen, this time to prepare James's bottle.
Apparently watching her as she flees is my new hobby, which is fucking ridiculous. If anything, I should be celebrating her retreat. I should find relief and peace in her absence. And yet, somehow, I don’t.
If anything, there’s an annoyingly persistent pinch in my chest. One that shouldn’t be there. One I’m not willing to put a name to it. But if I had to, I’d say it feels a lot like guilt.
Which is bullshit of the highest order. What in the hell do I have to feel guilty over? Have I been in rare form? Sure. But, really, it’s hardly my fault. Not when Scarlet usually gives it back as good as she gets.
Tonight though? She’s a sensitive, weepy mess, and I don’t like it. Not one bit. I much prefer her fire—some sick part of me likes the burn of her sharp tongue.
“God,” I growl, tugging on the ends of my hair. “Gonna drive me up the damn wall.”
“You’re going somewhere?” she asks, her voice cold.
“No?” My reply comes out as a question.
“Hmm. Okay.” She leans down and scoops James out of his jumper, never once looking my way.
“What are you even talking about?”
“You were talking about driving. Leave or don’t, Ellis. I truly don’t care.” The slight tremor in her voice calls her on her bullshit so well that I don’t bother.
