Page 64 of Hunted: Season Two
“What was wrong with that Odyssey?”
“Tires.”
“What about that Enclave?”
“Oil change.”
“And that S-Class?”
“Valve cover gasket replacement.” There isn’t time to ask for details due to him grabbing the dish towel and moving elsewhere. “Where do you need me, baby?”
“Let’s work together at the kitchen table,” she casually informs. “There’s more room to maneuver here than at the counter.”
Both impressed and irritated by his dedication to isolate me from his life, I grumble my unhappiness under my breath and quickly scrub up to join them.
Out of all the years I’ve been in his life, he’s neveronceput up this level of roadblocks between us.
I keep trying to go around them, but it’s not working.
All alternate directions are unavailable.
And no detours are being suggested.
Accepted.
It’s like I have no choice except to sit here and wait for whatever shit construction is backing up traffic to finish its no end in sight project.
Drying my hand with a different dishtowel is done enroute to the table where Rabbit seems to be making mixtures of some sort. “And what are we cookin’ good lookin’?”
“Parmesan crusted porkchops.” Her beautiful brown gaze lifts to meet mine. “Posie sent me thissupereasy recipe that I’ve been dying to try.”
“Want me to make mashed potatoes, Kid?” My suggestion is attached to a crooked grin. “You know my insta shit is pretty hard to beat.”
I’m not even granted eye contact as he opens the packaging. “We can have whatever Bunny wants.”
“WhatBunny wantsis the two men in her life to be back on the same side of the fucking spreadsheet.” At that, she receives both of our stares. “Talk to each other.”
“I’ve been talking,” I thoughtlessly grunt in tandem with grabbing the box of breadcrumbs to open. “I’m the one not being talkedto.”
“I’ve talked to you,” Kid emotionlessly counters. “You ask. I answer. That’s talking.”
“That’s childish.”
“And name calling isn’t?”
The unexpected, returned jab has me slamming the box down and biting, “I wasn’t callingyoua child. I was saying thatbehavior–your behavior– is childish.”
“I see.” He crumples the plastic wrap into a ball. “Whenyoudo something, it’s acceptable. WhenIdo the exact same thing, it isn’t.” His no look, one handed throw impressively makes it into the garbage. “Got it.”
“Kid-”
“What else can I help with?” Kipp finds our woman’s gaze again. “You want me to season anything? Everything?” Mischievousness muscles it way into his expression. “I’m very good at making things shake in my hand.”
“How about I season?” She sassily slides around his frame, forcing him to switch places with her, putting him closer to me. “And you crack the eggs?”
“You got it.”
“You wanna crack the eggs?” There’s no hesitation for me to move the carton out of his reach. “You actually fucking talk to me.”