“How do you know he has a Netflix profile on mine?”
“Because he hasn’t logged into my account for at least four days, so I figure he’s using yours.”
“Huh. Yeah. What a jerk.”
“You’re preaching to the choir, sister.” Her lips pulled to one side. “This way, he’ll probably get a Hulu subscription and pay for it so you can use that.”
“I like the way you think.”
She grinned. “You’d feel the same about your brother.”
Probably.
“All right, so I have all these now. And I’m totally canceling my cable, for what it’s worth.” I wiped the grease from my Danish off my fingers. “There has to be something else, right?”
Angelica frowned. “Like what?”
“His big issue. I don’t know. His crux. The thing that stymies him. His Achilles heel, I guess.”
“His Achilles heel?”
“Yeah. The one thing that really gets to him. There has to be something that really gets under his skin. Isn’t there?”
Angelica took a long drink of her latte and set it down. Slowly, she sat back and linked her fingers over her bump, her blue gaze firmly locked onto mine. “You wanna know?”
“Yes. What is Ethan’s Achilles heel?”
Her throat bobbed, and she said one word in response. “You.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
* * *
ETHAN
Salty As Fuck—Literally
I wiped my face with the nearest cloth and quickly dropped it to the floor. It was covered in oil, and I knew it’d done more damage than good to my face.
Shit.
I ducked into the staff bathroom and scrubbed at my face. I didn’t know who the idiot was that made oil and water repel each other, but I wanted to have words with them right now.
Yesterday, it was salt in my coffee.
Now, it was oil on my face after cleaning up.
Shit.
It’d been one of the longest Mondays in the history of the world, and I was so fucking glad it was over.
I grabbed my stuff from the staff room, and after waving goodbye to my uncle and the other guys in the garage who were finishing up with an oil change for an elderly lady, I slipped out of the side door and headed toward my car.
I needed to come up with a way to get back at Ava. I swore I could still taste the salt if I touched my tongue to the roof of my mouth.
Yep.
I could.
No amount of scrubbing and mouthwash was going to get rid of it.
It was going to haunt my fucking dreams, which was fitting since Ava was already doing that.
I pulled out of the parking lot and turned in the direction of the store. There had to be something in the grocery store that would give me inspiration to pay her back for the salt.
That, and I needed to buy more sugar. And a safe for my sugar. Just in case.
I pulled into an empty spot near the entrance and grabbed a cart on my way in. We’d never discussed how this would work—did we split the bill? Did we buy our own food? What about shared meals?
I stopped and pulled my phone out of my pocket to text her.
ME: Do you need anything from the store?
There. I was being a nice person, even though she didn’t deserve it. My phone rang almost immediately, Ava’s name flashing on the screen.
“Why are you calling me?” I asked as soon as I answered.
“Because I’m at work, and it’s quicker to argue this way,” she replied without missing a beat. “Yes, there are things we need. We’re out of toilet paper, plus we need milk, eggs, bananas, and Lucky Charms cereal.”
“Not a lot, then,” I said dryly. “All right. Anything else?”
“Yes. Sugar.”
“Hold the phone; we’ve got a comedian on our hands.”
Ava sniggered. “I have to get back to work. I’ll give you some money later. Bye.”
The line went dead, and I put the phone back in my pocket. Everything except the cereal was pretty standard, and I wasn’t going to take her money for it. It wasn’t like she’d asked me to buy her shampoo or whatever lived down the lady aisle.
That was an aisle I wasn’t going to walk down.
I loaded the cart with everything we needed, doubling back to get her cereal. By the time I was done at the register, I was more than a hundred bucks lighter and had adulted so hard that it was a shame I was driving and couldn’t drink a beer in the car.
I drove back to the apartment and pulled into an empty spot. I almost pulled into Ava’s designated one, but knowing her, she’d take my car keys, move the car, then hide my keys.
I had to pick my battles better than that.
I grabbed all the bags and headed upstairs to the apartment. I almost dropped one, but good old-fashioned determination and the handles slicing into my fingers got me to the front door. After spending a good minute fumbling with my keys, I let myself into the apartment and dumped the bags on the floor.
It took fifteen minutes to put it all away, mostly because I still wasn’t totally familiar with the kitchen.
That was the last time I spent that much on food.
I picked up the last item—the Lucky Charms—and put them on top of the fridge where she kept the other cereal.
And froze.
People ate Lucky Charms for one reason.
The marshmallows.
A grin spread across my face. Yeah—this was the appropriate fucking revenge, all right. She was going to lose her shit, and I was going to laugh my fucking ass off.
I grabbed the box back down and hunted the cupboards for a plastic mixing bowl. Locating one in one of the bottom cupboards, I put it on the island and emptied the entire box into the bowl.
One by one, I picked out the marshmallows, putting them in a plastic Tupperware container, until the mixing bowl was full of marshmallow-less cereal.
She was going to kill me.
I carefully put the cereal back into the box, closed it up, and put it on top of the fridge. It was the only box there, so I knew she’d open this one tomorrow.
God, I hoped she woke up before I left for work.
I’d be late if it meant I could see her face.
It was, hands down, the most passive-aggressive thing I’d ever done in my life. Right along with the gentle nudging of her candles.
Man, that pissed her off.
I laughed to myself as I went into my room. Mr. Prickles was asleep, so I refilled his water and left him alone.
I still didn’t know how I’d ended up the owner of a hedgehog. It was definitely my mom’s fault, though. That much I did know.
I checked my phone and, instead of cooking, ordered a pizza, happy with my payback.
***
“Why is the spiky pig sitting in my shoe?”
I looked up from the article I was reading on my phone and over at the door. Mr. Prickles was indeed sitting in one of her running shoes, and he was staring at her, almost taunting her. “Maybe it’s comfortable.”
“I wouldn’t run in shoes that weren’t,” she replied, putting her glasses on. “But that’s mine.”
“So go and move him.” I picked up my cup of coffee and sipped.
“I’m not touching it. They have fleas.”
“Wild ones, sure. He gets flea treatment.”