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“Yes we did. We just had a conversation about it. You wanted takeout so that we could spend more time getting down ‘n’ dirty.”
“No. I mean, yes we did decide on takeout. But not for that reason. Besides, that was when I thought I was on a date with Rowan. YOU are not invited. You need to leave.”
“Aww, come on now. I called you beautiful, surely I deserve to stay for that?” he whines. I shake my head at him, exasperated.
“Besides,” he adds. “I’m not going anywhere, darlin’. Regardless of who you thought I was, you all but implied you were going to sleep with my brother, so I’m sticking around for that…wait, I didn’t mean it to sound like that.”
I can’t help it. A laugh escapes from my lips.
“Dick,” I hiss, still laughing. “Come in,” I add to Rowan.
I shut the door as Rowan follows Linden through to the lounge.
“Dude, what’s with the wings?” Linden asks his brother.
“Did you not see her?” Rowan replies.
“Yeah, but I have some control.”
Rowan snorts at Linden’s response. “You look like a randy school boy.”
“Erm guys, what is with the wings?” I ask, entering the room.
Rowan goes beetroot and won’t meet my gaze.
“I’m going to start cooking,” he mumbles, rushing out of the room. I don’t worry about following him to give directions, there’s only one other room downstairs and it’s the kitchen. He won’t get lost.
“Well, are you going to tell me?” I demand, looking at Linden.
“Nope,” he says, popping the p.
“Asshole.”
“Pretty much. You gonna offer your guests a drink or what?”
“You are not a guest,” I point out. “But what would you like?”
He grins salaciously at me.
“To drink,” I clarify, firmly.
“Spoil sport.” He pouts. “Whatever you’re having.”
I leave him in the lounge and wander through to the kitchen to fix some drinks. Rowan’s wings have disappeared, but I spy two small slits in the back of his shirt, I guess for freeing them when he wants or needs to.
“That smells amazing,” I tell Rowan.
“It’s just cooking onions.” He laughs.
“Drink?”
“Please. Whatever you’re having.”
I decide to make them regret not choosing their own drink by whipping up three strawberry shortcake cocktails. I top them with lashings of whipped cream and strawberry sprinkles. While I’ve been doing this, Linden has joined us and sat at my small round breakfast table.
“What the hell is that?” he says when I pass him the cocktail.
“Your drink.”
