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“Leave,” I say quietly, and turn away so I don’t have to see her face.
I rake my fingers through my hair as I walk toward the kitchen island, my dick hard, my mind a mess, and my heart hurting like someone just took it in her hand and squeezed hard.
I don’t understand this—us.
Kat has two moods. “Wow, that’s amazing,” and “I’ll cut you.” The speed with which they change is frustrating.
Fuck this shit.
And her.
“Leave, Kat,” I say on an exhale. “Your lock is reactivated. Go.”
I still don’t look at her, because seeing her eyes will change my mind, and then it will be the same vicious circle again.
Flirt. Fuck. Snap. Argue. Fuck.
On repeat.
Sometimes in reverse order.
I hear her soft footsteps as she leaves the kitchen without a word.
I want to smash every single plate in my house. I am not even drunk, but I want to break things. I need a bottle and a line of coke.
I hear the soft sound of the front door closing.
Gone.
Good.
But the smell of green curry that saturates the air reminds me of her.
Exhaling loudly, I look around and want to roar in frustration.
Because the vicious circle starts again.
I don’t cook. I don’t even know if I have plastic containers in this kitchen.
And what do I do?
Yeah…
God fucking help me! My IQ drops around this girl.
I hate myself for this, but I open one of the cupboards and start looking for empty containers.
Because there is all this food cooked by a Michelin Star chef from the mainland.
Becauseshe’s been talking about it for weeks.
And though I hate her more than anything this very moment, she might want to eat it after all…
50
KAT
The next day,I decide to ditch the Center. I take a long swim in the ocean, an even longer shower, then spend the majority of the day reading the files.
