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Jonas, carefully sinks the serving spoon into the fluffy goodness, lifting it out and holding it up in front of his face, mounded with the rich mousse. Every muscle in my body tenses as Jonas's eyes turn shifty. He's moving to his lizard brain. I've seen it over and over again when we're around food. Not just from him. We all do it. Evie's trying to break us of it, but she isn't here right now, is she?
"Don't you fucking do it," I tell him, standing slowly from my chair. He doesn't bother looking at me, just tightens his grip on the spoon. "Jonas. Don't. There's enough for everyone." I'm not getting through, I can tell. I take another step closer, and he growls at me. We're at Defcon whatever the fuck is the worst. I bend my knees, ready for whichever way this is going to go. Then, with a suddenness that startles a gasp out of Bree, he makes his move, swinging the spoon straight at his wide open mouth. The tip makes it in just before I tackle him.
I'll admit I could have thought that through, but in my defense, it was chocolate pudding and whipped cream. How the fuck was I supposed to handle that?
We crash into the wall, the spoon of mousse smears across Jonas's face, the bowl pressed between us. Both of us are so completely fixated on the bowl, we miss John's approach. We don't miss the tight grip he takes on our ears, or the way Bree slides the bowl out from between us. We're bent at the waist, slapping at John and each other. His muttered 'Jesus Christ' barely penetrating the chocolate haze. Then he's pushing us away, back into the corner.
Our prize stolen, we glare at him as he plants his hands on his hips. "You fucknuts are cut off. You need to learn some fucking self control. Not even the craziest inmates did shit like this. Now Bree and I are going to sit here and eat our dessert like civilized adults. The two of you are going to sit there, hands on the table, and learn some fucking patience. Am I clear?"
I eye Jonas, then sign,”We could take him."
Jonas shakes his head and signs back, "No way. He won't give me cooking lessons if we attack him. He frowns on that kind of behavior."
I look at John, standing like a fucking wall between me and the desert. Then at Bree, who's staring at us wide eyed, one hand covering her mouth, the other holding the bowl. We could get it from her, guaranteed, but even I know that would be crossing a line.
My breath leaves me in a sigh. "Fine. We'll be 'patient'. But I would like to formally register a complaint with management."
John rolls his eyes and turns back to the table, sliding over two bowls. I watch forlornly as he serves Bree than himself. Jonas bumps me with his shoulder, scowling.
"Your fault," he mutters.
I eye him, and the chocolate mousse covering the side of his face from his eyebrows to his collarbone, and I break. Grabbing his head, I lick the side of his face, getting as much of the desert in my mouth as I can with one swipe.
Bree's hysterical laughter is the only reason I'll ever be able to look at her again. If she's laughing, she can't be disgusted, right?
I hope I'm right. Because I can't be sorry. The taste of the chocolate is even better than the look of absolute disgust on Jonas's face.
It's a win-win.
13
BREE
My finger hovers over Nick's contact, but I chicken out and drop my phone on my lap. This is a bad idea. The man is too sexy, too nice, too everything. He's too much temptation. I should be smart and stay far away. I am damaged goods, and he is far better off away from me.
With a groan, I wake up my phone, letting my finger hover again. I am not damaged. I'm hurt, but not broken. The familiar refrain doesn't seem to be helping the way it's supposed to. It's another one of the tools in my psychological toolbox that is a bit of a letdown. It's not my counselor's fault. She's great. It's one hundred percent user error, I'm sure.
I shouldn't call him. But my competitive spirit won't let me not. It's not like I have many other choices. I've been through every other contact I have and no one's available. All of this angst over calling Nick might be for nothing. He's probably busy. I'm sure he's out there fixing a problem or making a ton of money. He wouldn't have time for this, anyway.
So what's the harm? If he's busy, then there's no reason not to ask. He'll say no, and you can stop fucking around. Giving up the fight, I let my finger hit the call button and raise the phone to my ear. After the third ring, my shoulders relax. He's busy. He's not going to answer. God, I was making such a big deal out of nothing.
"Are you okay? Bree? What's wrong?" The urgency in Nick's voice propels me out of the slouched position I'm in. Everyone else is gone, off to grab food before the game. Honestly, this office is a hell of a lot creepier at night with no one else around.
"Nick. Um. Hi. Nothing's wrong. Why would you think that?"
His heavy exhale sends a shiver down my back. It's like I can feel the caress of his breath, even through the phone lines. "I don't know. Maybe the fact that you've had my number for months and never once called me?"
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. You know what, it's no big deal. It was just a silly thought. Go back to whatever you were doing. I'm sorry I interrupted you." I stammer through the words, then hang up, pressing the phone to my forehead .
I should not be allowed near people I am such an idiot.
The phone ringing startles a scream out of me. I know who it is. Woman up, Bree. Answer the damned phone. "Hi," I say, forcing cheeriness into my voice.
"You are one of the most frustrating women I've ever met, you know that?"
"Seriously? Me? No way that's true."
"Absolutely true. Most women can't wait to get a piece of me. They ask for favors, or cash or for company on holiday...a holiday they want me to pay for. And you Bree? You call me for something, then hang up on me. My fragile ego is feeling quite bruised." The playful note in his voice makes me smile.
