6. Amelia

Amelia

I hate Everett Griffin.

I hate his stupid smirk. I hate his stupid... abs.

Huh? Wait. No. Erase that last one.

I slap both cheeks with my palms. "What is wrong with you, Amelia?" I groan as heat rushes up my neck.

Why did that asshole have to open the door looking like...

Ugh!

I squeeze my eyes shut. Stupid Everett, with his stupid body. Stupid me too. Shit.

I dive into the shower, letting the cool water wash over me. It's the cocktail. It has to be. Half a cocktail and suddenly my brain's malfunctioning? Gosh.

By the time I'm done, I pull on the oversized T-shirt Everett gave me.

Correction. It's basically a knee-length dress.

Standing in front of the mirror, I turn to one side, then the other.

Hm. Not bad.

A familiar scent, cedarwood and laundry detergent, brushes past my nose. It smells like... Everett.

My eyes widen.

Amelia!

I yank the collar away from my nose like it electrocuted me.

"Nope."

Absolutely not. I'm not becoming one of those girls who fawn over him. God forbid.

I run my fingers through my damp hair and march downstairs.

When I step into the kitchen, Everett's already there. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows as he washes vegetables, his hair still damp from his shower.

I blink. "I thought I was cooking."

"You are," he responds.

"Then why are you helping?"

"I'm hungry." He doesn't even spare me a glance.

Oh. Fair enough.

I grab the ingredients from the counter and start measuring them out. Yet, for some reason... my eyes keep drifting toward his forearms.

Every. Single. Time. And it's not intentional, trust me.

The veins running along his forearms, the way his shirt hugs his shoulders...

Ugh.

Why am I noticing these things?

And every single time, he catches me staring and I immediately look somewhere else. The cupboard. The ceiling. The microwave. The floooor. Anywhere but him.

Geez. Get a grip, Amelia.

I huff. Tonight, Everett wants me to make pasta for everyone, and coincidentally, it's my favorite. Somehow, though, I end up doing almost nothing.

Everett steals the knife from me. "You're chopping those too thick."

"Excuse me?"

"The mushrooms."

I choke. "They're perfectly sliced."

He silently holds one up.

...

Okay. Maybe they're a bit chunky.

"Move," he says.

"Bossy much." I sneer.

"More like efficient." He smirks.

I step aside with the biggest eye roll in history. "Who taught you to cook?"

"Mom."

I pause. "...Seriously?"

He looks over his shoulder and scoffs. "I'm rich, Hart." He tosses chopped onions into the pan. "Not helpless."

Fair enough, but this is... new. Everett Griffin knows how to cook, and he's doing it right in front of me. Guess I really have been judging this idiot too quickly, which, again, is annoying.

"Get me a pot. Top cabinet, first one on the right."

I blink the thoughts away and get on the tips of my toes, stretching hard. Still too short to reach it.

Then... warmth brushes through me from behind.

My breath catches as Everett steps in behind me, one arm reaching over my shoulder while the other comes down beside me on the counter.

It's crazy, but I'm suddenly boxed in.

My heart skips a beat. Then another.

The pot comes down a few seconds later, but he doesn't move away immediately. Neither do I. Not that I can.

I can feel the warmth radiating off him, and it's...

Three seconds pass. Maybe four.

Then he slowly steps back. "Shortie," he mutters.

I swallow hard, then scowl. And suddenly, my lungs remember how to work again.

"Don't you dare! Don't call me that."

"Then grow."

"You're unbelievable." I roll my eyes for the umpteenth time today.

"So I've been told." He smirks.

Once dinner's ready, the dishes are served and we're all settled at the dining table.

"Maid!" Spencer hums around a mouthful. "If you ever dump Everett, marry me, okay?"

Ew. I just saw you making out. Never. Plus, I'm not with this asshole. I glance at Everett, and he's already looking at me.

I immediately look away and stab another forkful of pasta into my mouth.

Eat your food, idiot.

"I didn't cook the food." I twirl my fork. "Everett did."

And... clink. Harper's fork slips from his fingers.

Cole looks up from his phone so fast you'd think I'd announced the world was ending.

And Spencer actually stops chewing.

All three of them stare at me.

"Ev. cooked?" Harper asks.

Yeah. I nod. "Is that not..."

"Wait. Our Everett? Dude!" Spencer gapes. "He's never entered the kitchen before!"

Laughter erupts around the table.

I blink.

What exactly is so funny?

I peek at Everett, and the guy's acting like they're invisible. He's just eating, like the conversation has nothing to do with him.

Cole eyes him. "Seriously... you cooked?"

Everett keeps eating.

Spencer points his fork at him. "Dude. Cole's been feeding us for three years."

Harper looks at Everett. Then at me.

Spencer does the same, and Cole follows.

Wait. What's going on?

"What? Why are you all looking at me?" I ask.

No one says a word, but Spencer's grin is downright suspicious, Harper's shoulders are already shaking, and Cole keeps staring between the two of us.

Weird.

"Everett, are you going to Georgina's party?" Harper asks.

Georgina... The name doesn't ring any bell.

Who am I kidding? It's not like I share friends with these men. I only got to know Harper, Spencer, and Cole through Everett.

"No." Everett's response comes out sharp. "And you guys shouldn't, either. We have a game on Saturday, remember?"

"Yes, Cap," Spencer responds, but it isn't genuine. I can tell from the rueful smirk on his face and the look he exchanges with Cole and Harper.

They are sooo attending that party.

After dinner, I automatically reach for the dirty plates, but slender, firm hands beat me to them.

Everett.

"I can do that." It's the least I can do.

I mean, I'm the maid here, alright.

"I know."

"Then why are you taking them?"

"Because you cooked."

"But you cooked."

He shrugs. "You supervised."

My eyes roll into my head as I follow him to the kitchen. He just likes to get on my nerves in any way possible.

Spencer whistles behind us. "He's helping with dishes too?"

Harper leans against the counter, his brows drawn together. "Who are you and what have you done with Everett Griffin?"

Everett doesn't even look at them as he loads the dishwasher. "Shut up and get out."

We're soon left alone, and the house gradually goes quiet. It's just Everett and me... We clean up in silence. Not the uncomfortable kind. Just... quiet.

I take the last plate from him, dry it, and place it on the rack.

"Done," I murmur, stifling a yawn.

"Thanks."

I freeze.

Did... Everett Griffin just thank me?

And was that... a smile?

We leave the kitchen. Spencer's door swings open and he pokes his head out. "Night, maid."

"Night, gardener."

Everett sighs. "Will both of you stop?"

"No." Spencer shuts his door.

"No." I poke my tongue out and trail him upstairs.

As I'm about to enter m... the guest room, he calls out behind me.

"Hart."

Huh? I spin around.

"You're coming to the party with me tomorrow."

What par...

My eyes widen. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

"I thought you said you weren't going."

"I changed my mind." He opens his bedroom door. "You're coming with me."

"Goodnight, Hart."

Slam.

I stare hard at his door.

Ass to the fucking hole!