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She pursed her lips. “We’ll see.”
With that, she spun around and stalked out of the apartment, kicking the door shut behind her.
And I grinned.
Messing with her was going to be fun.
CHAPTER FIVE – AVA
Passive Aggressive Bullshit
My candles were in the wrong places.
I dropped my purse on the sofa and stormed over to the window. Yep. I was right. One of the candles had been moved an inch to the right, and another had been nudged backward.
Fucking Ethan.
I was going to kill him.
All right, so I’d started this with the whole picture of his balls—which didn’t exist—but this was just downright mean.
Passive. Aggressive. Bullshit.
If that was how he wanted to do this… as he said, we’d play. I grew up with a brother. I was used to doing things to piss the other off. If he wanted to move my candles, I’d get back at him in my own way.
I knew exactly where to start, too, but I didn’t have much time. My ‘hour’ at The Wright Bouquet had turned into four when Preston’s car broke down and he couldn’t do the deliveries so Reagan had to.
I marched into the kitchen and grabbed hold of the sugar canister. The lid made a popping sound as I pulled it off to look inside. There wasn’t a whole lot of sugar in there, so with a nod, I carried it over to the trashcan and tipped every last granule into it.
I set it on the counter and pulled the tub of salt down from the cupboard. It was fairly new, and I tipped it into the sugar canister until it was a third full like it’d been before.
I didn’t take sugar in my coffee unless I was hungover and needed a kick. Since I had no plans to drink tonight, I knew it’d ruin Ethan’s morning tomorrow.
I was all about that.
I mean, I could ask him to move out, or I could just ruin his life.
Since he seemed hell-bent on ruining mine, it’d be rude not to return the favor.
I put the lid back on the canister and put it in place between the coffee one and the tea one that was actually full of cookies.
Talking of cookies…
I pulled three from the jar and replaced the lid. I needed a sugar hit after the day I’d had, and I also needed to decide what to make for dinner.
Did I have to cook for Ethan, too? Or were we each responsible for our own food?
I cooked too much food all the time. A bit like the people who cooked pasta for two but made enough to feed an entire classroom. I was like that but with everything.
It didn’t really explain why I made six enchiladas for myself every time, but whatever.
A perusal of the fridge turned up not a whole lot, but as far as enchiladas went, I had everything for those.
Hmm.
I fetched my phone from my purse and pulled up Ethan’s number.
ME: What time do you finish work? Definitely 5?
His response was swift.
ETHAN: Yeah, 5. Why?
ME: I’m making enchiladas. Did you want some?
ETHAN: Are you going to poison me?
ME: Even if I were, why would I tell you?
ETHAN: To be nice?
ME: Murderers don’t give advance notice.
ME: Nor are they nice.
ME: Can you answer the question?
ETHAN: I don’t know if I trust you not to poison me.
ME: To paraphrase the Beast—then go ahead and fucking starve.
ETHAN: If you’re talking about the Disney dude, I don’t think he said ‘fucking.’
ME: That’s why I said paraphrase.
ETHAN: Right.
ME: Look, I’m going to make a ton anyway because I make too much of everything, but I was asking to be nice.
ETHAN: I’d love enchiladas. As long as you don’t poison me.
ME: If you don’t fucking shut up, I’ll bludgeon you in your sleep.
ETHAN: That’s fine. I have great dreams. I’ll die happy.
ME: Weirdo.
I put my phone down and got to preparing dinner. Cooking was soothing to my soul, and I felt entirely at home in the kitchen. More than anywhere else, actually. It was my happy place.
I diced the chicken and tossed it into the pan, then sliced the vegetables. By the time it was all done and I had the sauce made, the front door opened, and Ethan walked in.
He froze in the doorway.
“What?” I asked, glancing at him over my shoulder.
“Nothing. It smells better than I thought.”
“Yeah, well, they do say that most people can’t smell cyanide.”
“Funny,” he drawled, dragging the word right out. “I might order in instead.”
I rolled my eyes and grabbed the tortillas, slicing the packaging open with a knife. God only knew I’d made enough fillings for all of them, so I was going to cook all of them.
Ethan disappeared into his room, and I finished making the enchiladas. The oven was hot, so I put the dish inside it and closed the door. It already smelled amazing, and I was a little gutted that I had to put the dishes in the dishwasher.
