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ChapterEight
Penny bolted upright at the unexpected sound of someone knocking on her door, and Luna—who’d been curled up next to her—darted out of the room like she’d gotten an electric shock.
Penny had been lying on the couch the better part of the last two days, only getting up for food or drinks or when nature called. She hadn’t showered, so she looked like utter dog shit.
There was no way she was answering the door.
Another knock. This one louder.
“I’m not leaving until you open the door, Beaumont.”
Gage. Of course, it was fucking Gage. She could lube a car with the amount of grease in her unwashed hair right now. And she was getting a zit on her forehead. When in the hell was she going to outgrow the damn zits?
“Go away,” she yelled. She’d called in sick to work today, so maybe he’d just assume she was too ill to answer and leave her alone.
“No,” he yelled back.
Fine.
What the hell did it matter how she looked? It wasn’t likehewas looking.
She stomped to the door and flung it open. “What?”
“Damn,” he said, his gaze missing nothing as his eyes slid from her bedhead hair to her baggy T-shirt and yoga pants—the same ones she’d worn the past two days—and her bare feet.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“You called in sick.”
“I know.”
“You haven’t called in sick once in six years. I looked it up.”
Any annoyance she harbored toward him vanished when she realized he’d come because he was worried. “Oh. I guess I have a hearty constitution.”
She stepped aside, a silent invitation for him to come in, before shutting the door.
He studied her face. “To be honest, you don’t look sick.”
She shrugged. Maybe she didn’t have a cold or the flu, but she still felt like shit. She was calling this a mental health day. Not that it had done a damn thing to improve her mental health. The pity party she’d thrown for herself had morphed into a misery marathon that showed no signs of ending soon.
“I just needed a day off,” she said, turning toward the kitchen. “Want something to drink?”
“Sure.” Gage followed her, his nose crinkling. “What the hell is that smell?”
Penny gestured toward the pan on the stove. “I burned my lunch.”
He glanced at the charred remnants in the pan. “What were you making?”
“Hard-boiled eggs.”
He looked at her with one eyebrow raised.
“I can’t cook,” she said by way of explanation.
“That’s not cooking. That’s literally just boiling water.”
“I got distracted.”
