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The two of us eye one another from opposite sides of the room.
I lift the carton, a frisson of energy darting around inside my stomach as Jet’s nostrils flare. I ignore theglass on the counter, instead bringing the carton to my lips. I take a long, deep slug, my eyes fixed on his.
His narrow. That’s when I spot the skipping rope in his hands. I’ve no idea when he picked it up again, but the way he’s coiling it around one of his palms, making the veins pop in his forearms as he glares at me has my pulse notching up a gear and an unwelcome heat flaring in my core.
“You’re a bit of a brat, aren’t you, Miss Roberts?”
I swallow my mouthful of juice before I cough. “Excuse me?”
He stalks closer, looking from the empty glass on the counter to the carton between my fingers.
“You heard me,” he clips.
“And you’re a bit of an old ass.” I scoff without thinking.
“I’m thirty-three.”
“So you said.”
His wide shoulders still carry a sheen from the layer of fresh sweat on them. And his dark hair has turned into glistening inky strands.
“What if you aren’t the only one in this house who likesgrapefruit juice?” He frowns, reading the carton.
“Margaret said this fridge was for my things. Mag… I mean, your father, said it too.”
“My father should know better than to let his hospitality overrule common manners.” He transfers the skipping rope to one hand and lifts the unused glass with the other. “Use. The. Glass.”
My fingers tingle, ready to take it from him. But I quell the feeling, and instead, lift the carton to my lips, taking another sip as I keep my eyes on his.
My red lipstick leaves a glaring circle around the edge as I lower the carton. Jet’s attention zeroes in on it like it’s the root of all evil.
“No, thank you. I’m good,” I reply, giving him a sweet smile.
A vein in his temple pulses, and he takes a slow, measured breath in as he places the glass back down. He takes the carton from me, his fingers brushing mine and making me jump as an electric shock sparks between our skin. He scowls at the scarlet ring on the spout, and I wait for him to throw it in the trash.
Instead, he brings it to his lips, tilting his head back as he drains the remaining juice from it, then crumples the empty container inside his fist.
“Yourcarton is empty now.” He tosses it on the counter. “The next one you open is for everyone, so use a fucking glass.”
“You just cursed.”
He stares at me.
“You just cursed after telling me off for cursing,” I say.
“That was nothing, Ava. You’d know if I was telling you off, believe me.”
My thighs clench involuntarily at the deep baritone of his tone. I rest my gaze on the smudge of red lipstick on his lips.
“You have my…” I circle a finger in the air toward the offending mark. It looks wrong on his arrogant lips.
He swipes his thumb over his lower lip, bringing it in front of his face so he can assess it. I wait for him to wipe it on his top, or rush to wash his hands like he did after he shook mine when we met.
“Exactly why you should use a glass.”
“You and your glass obsession,” I mutter.
He scowls at his thumb, then takes it between his lips and sucks it clean.
