Make My Move (Hannaford Prep #5) - J. Bree Page 0,47
me from that little bombshell.
It hasn’t.
Not at all.
Chapter Fifteen
Harley
Someone at this fucking hellhole of a school is fucking with my girl.
I will kill the asshole, I will fucking gut him, but first I need a clue because after weeks of chasing down guys in the hallways, beating the shit out of half the male student population in fight club, and straight up stalking Lips around the school… I’ve got nothing.
Fucking nothing.
Everyone goes home for Christmas break and, like always, I stay behind.
Lips refuses to leave her room, no matter how much I try to coax her out over text, and it progressively drives me fucking insane. When she doesn’t come down to the dining hall for the giant spread they put on for us both on Christmas Eve, I take matters into my own hands and text Avery for the spare key.
She always hides one in our room for emergency purposes but this year, thanks to her roommate, she didn’t tell us where it was.
She’s obviously worried enough now that she relents and tells me where the fuck it is while chewing me out about being nice to Lips.
Like I need to be told.
She doesn’t move from under her covers when I walk in. I hover by the bed for a second to make sure she’s actually fucking breathing, my own chest going tight at the thought that maybe she just decided to take a handful of pills and end it all.
I know just enough about her past to be worried about that and not enough to be sure.
When I know for sure that she’s alive and just sleeping, I get to work in the kitchen. This girl is fucking obsessed with food. I get it, I am too in my own way. It’s like the Mounty kid trauma toolkit; we all have weird issues about food, money, and loyalties. Don’t ask us to snitch on shit and don’t ever, ever touch our food.
I once broke a guy’s skull in three places in juvie for touching my hamburger, and it tasted like garbage.
But food is food.
I switch the TV on while I wait for the pan to heat up, the coffee machine doing its thing, when I hear the first signs of life from the sleeping beauty.
The groan is fucking obscene.
I have to swallow to get my voice to come out right. “I’m making French toast. Aves said it’s your favorite, consider it a peace offering. I'm only good at breakfast so you're going to have to figure something out for us to have for dinner.”
She doesn’t reply, doesn’t move, doesn’t attempt to engage with me at all. For a second I think that maybe I’ve fucked up big time coming here and I try to explain myself a bit, as hard as that shit is. “I get you don't do Christmas but this is the first chance I've had to spend the day with someone since my da died. I've been trapped in boarding schools ever since and teachers really don't give a crap about orphaned mobster kids.”
I turn back to the stove and start frying up the French toast, my fingers sticky with the eggy mixture. She groans again but this time she climbs out of the bed, fumbling around in one of the drawers for something to cover up.
Even though I’ve already seen her in next to nothing, it kills me not to turn around and get a look at her.
When she joins me in the kitchen, she has one of her ugly, oversized sweaters on that goes down to her knees. I hand her a giant cup of coffee as a peace offering and she rummages around in the cupboards for syrup and sprinkles, mumbling under her breath, “It's Christmas, we deserve some fucking sprinkles.”
It’s too fucking cute.
When the food is ready I make for the breakfast bar, but Lips redirects me to the floor in front of the TV instead. She puts on Nightmare Before Christmas instead of the carols and then we argue for the entire movie. Let's just say one of us thinks the movie is a Halloween movie and the other person is wrong.
She moans softly over every bite and I feel like I’ve fucking won something.
When she stands up to clear our plates, my gaze catches on her bare legs because I can’t fucking help how badly I want to be between them, have them wrapped around my head as I eat her out every fucking day for the rest of