“Do you seriously have to cook dinner right now?” Jonah growled as I ducked under his arm to get at the oven.
The kitchen was small under the best of circumstances. But put two adults intent on cooking at the same time while avoiding each other in it and it became a shoebox.
“Since you’re the one with the problem, maybe you should cook your dinner later.” I pointed out the logic of the situation.
“I don’t have a problem,” he argued.
Jonah Bodine was turning out to be as temperamental as his half-brother Gibson.
“Are you always so moody, or is it situational?” I reached into the oven and flipped my chicken nuggets over, blowing on my fingers. “Ouch.”
He grabbed my hand and slapped a pair of tongs into it. “Use the right tools for the job.” It wasn’t his intended effect, I was sure, but I felt a little shiver of biochemical reaction work its way up my spine.
Jonah was not my type.
I liked the academic, glasses-wearing, “let me tell you about my research” type. But the fact that I was reacting to Mr. Frowny Jock on such a physical level was… interesting.
“Thanks.” I flipped the rest of the nuggets without scorching off my fingerprints.
“I’m not moody,” he grumbled, pushing the handle of the frying pan out of my way when I stood up. He was sautéing vegetables. A whole bunch of them. I sniffed at them with suspicion. I’d been born a picky eater. And, to my parents' undying embarrassment, I was still a picky eater at thirty. I kept waiting for this adventurous palate that everyone assured me would come. But sushi grossed me out. Mushrooms made me gag. And don’t even get me started on lunch meat. Or mayonnaise.
“Are those nuggets shaped like dinosaurs?”
“They are.” I beamed at him, rewarding him for his attempt at polite conversation. I could spend a month positively reinforcing him.
“That’s not food.”
I looked at the cookie sheet. “Of course it’s food. I cook it. I put it in my mouth. It’s food.”
“Food is fuel with nutrition.”
“It’s meat. Meat is nutritious.” At least I assumed it was.
Jonah looked at me like I was the dullest crayon in the box.
“Look. We don’t have to be friends, but we don’t have to be enemies,” I told him.
“You are the enemy,” he said.
I could have corrected him. But his attitude was annoying. I didn’t care if he liked me, I decided. I wasn’t here to make friends or develop a crush. I was here to work. And maybe I would take just the tiniest bit of pleasure in letting Jonah act like an idiot for a while.
“Do you really think your sister would make you share a house with a sworn enemy?”
“I haven’t known her that long. It’s a possibility.”
My annoyance inched up into irked territory. “I’m not your enemy. Let’s just be adults about this. How bad could the next month possibly be?”
7
Jonah
It was horrible.
The house that had seemed reasonably sized just days before was getting smaller by the minute.
She was everywhere.
I was an early riser by nature. I enjoyed the dawn of the day with its reverent silence and quiet potential. There was nothing reverent or quiet about Shelby dancing around to Maroon 5 and Panic! At the Disco while making those god-awful sugar bomb toasted pastries.
She wanted to make small talk about the weather while I laced up my running shoes.
Then she was singing in the shower. Or leaving bras in the bathroom. Or snort-laughing over reruns in the living room. The woman snorted when she laughed. And I hated that some dark corner of me found it kind of cute.
She’d taken the guest room and had made herself at home. I was the one who felt like I was intruding. Like I was a guest in her home. But, dammit, I’d gotten here first. I belonged here more than she did. I was building a relationship with family. She was just trying to exploit a scandal. Wasn’t she?
I made it a point not to let her chase me into my room. Made a big deal out of being “home” as much as she was.
We both had jobs without a consistent nine to five. Most of the classes and training that I did were in the mornings and evenings. Which left me in the house with her during the day while she muttered over reams of notes and typed like her fingers were on fire.