Page 48 of A Little Jaded
Good.
Because if I’m honestly caving right now, then I need to know it isn’t for nothing. And I need to know my super duper amazing—and super duper overprotective—family doesn’t get caught in the crosshairs of my screwup.
“I’ll see you at Etch ‘N’ Ink at four,” my dad grunts. “And give me access to your location again so I can see where you are every once in a while. Don’t think I didn’t notice when you stopped sharing with me. And it’s not because I’m stalking you, but because I care about you.”
“Mm-hmm,” I hum, though I know he sees right through it.
“That’s my girl. I’ll see you then.”
“See you, Dad,” I murmur when something catches my attention from the corner of my eye.
Resting his shoulder against the doorjamb, a shirtless Everett balances a plate in his hand.
I hang up the call and drop my phone onto my lap as I watch him carefully.
“How long were you eavesdropping?” I ask.
“Not too long.” Pushing himself away from the door, he strides closer and offers me an omelet. It smells amazing. Bacon, sausage, red peppers, purple onion. A sprig of, honestly, I don’t even know what herb it is, lies on top of the melted cheddar cheese, and my mouth waters.
“Did you make this?” I ask.
He nods. “Didn’t know if you preferred sausage or bacon, but, uh…eat up. It’s the most important meal of the day.”
“Thanks.” I take the plate, set it in my lap, and cut off a small bite with the fork he handed me, only to find a…I scoot the dark gray chunk from the omlet. Yup. It’s a mushroom. I hate mushrooms.
“There a problem?” Everett asks.
“Nope.” I push the stupid thing aside and cut off another bite, careful not to grab any mushroom with it before shoving it into my mouth. When my eyes nearly roll back into my head from the flavor explosion on my tastebuds, he asks, “You don’t like mushrooms?”
“This is great,” I point to my plate with the fork and go in for another bite while steering clear of the fungus bomb at the edge, praying he didn’t dice any stray pieces into the fluffy egg mixture.
As he watches me chew, Everett tilts his head. “You don’tlike mushrooms.” It isn’t a question this time, and I kind of hate how easily he reads me.
I stop mid-chew and hold his gaze, trying not to squirm.
“You can tell me you don’t like mushrooms,” he adds.
Swallowing the most delicious omelet I’ve ever tasted—sans mushrooms—I argue, “Seriously, they’re great.”
His fingers brush against mine as he steals the fork from my grasp and stabs the mushroom, bringing it to my lips. “Prove it.”
My nose wrinkles, and he takes the bite for himself, chewing slowly as he holds my gaze, his own shining with curiosity. Once he swallows, he says, “You’re allowed to have opinions.”
“I know,” I murmur.
“And you’re allowed to tell me your opinions,” he adds, though it’s softer this time. I swear the low rasp of his voice is directly connected to the stupid organ in my chest as it picks up its pace.
“Here,” he reaches for my plate, but I tug it back.
“I like it.”
“I’ll make you another one,” he argues. “Without mushrooms.”
“Seriously, Ev, I want this one.”
“Stop trying to bullshit me.”
“I’m not bullshitting you.” I keep a firm grip on the plate, refusing to let him take it. “Seriously, I’m not.”