“Figured as much.”
His thumb brushes against my side again before he lets me go. “Ready?”
I nod, and he snags the massive T-shirt from the countertop. Bunching the fabric, he slides it over my head, careful not to hurtme as he cautiously helps pull my arms through the holes until I’m drowning in his T-shirt.
It smells like him. I fight the urge to lift my shoulder and take another whiff, but it’s a hard battle. Seriously, how can someone smell so good?
Opening a small bottle, Jagger takes my hand and shakes a few pills into my palm. “For the pain.”
“Thanks.” I smile, wincing. “Again.”
“No problem, Little Thief.” Picking up the frozen peas, he offers it to me. “Last thing.”
The bag is cold but pliable as I press it to the bridge of my nose and sigh in relief. “Okay, that actually feels kind of good.”
“Not my first rodeo,” he says. “You hungry?”
I shake my head.
“You sure?”
“I ate some peanut butter before I went to the carnival, so?—”
“Peanut butter?”
“Mm-hmm.”
His gaze manages to darken all over again. “And here I thought we were getting somewhere.”
Confused, I murmur, “What?”
“That’s not a meal, Violet.”
I pull back, surprised by his response. Talk about a one-eighty. “What do you mean, it’s not a meal?”
He scoffs. “What do you mean, what do I mean? I mean, it’s not a fucking meal, Violet.”
Leaning back a bit more, I cross my arms while still holding the peas in my hand. “Then I guess we have different definitions of a meal.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. First of all, peanut butter is super calorie dense. It also has protein and healthy fats?—”
“And vitamins?” he pushes.
Offended, I point out, “You know, not all of us can afford fresh fruits and vegetables for every meal. Besides, I like peanut butter. Love it, actually, so maybe you shouldn’t knock it til you’ve tried it.”
“I’ve had peanut butter?—”
“With saltines?” I insist. “Because it’s really good, and it can be a meal if you have enough of it.”
“No wonder you’re like a bird,” he mutters. “But I’ll tackle that tomorrow.”
“Tackle what?”
Ignoring me, he continues, “For now, it’s time for bed.”
I could argue with him. Part of me wants to. But I’m also so exhausted that I don’t really care whether or not he approves of my dinner habits. I don’t really care if he approves of anything I do. He’s a Harden. And Hardens are stubborn, and egotistical, and holier than thou, which he’s proven time and time again.
