Page 127 of Cold Mercy

I groan, push myself up, and stomp to the door. My irritation is ready, and I swing it open.

Thomas leans on the doorframe like he’s posing for some stupid shit, freshly showered, hair damp. That stupid, barely-there smile sits on his mouth like he put it there on purpose.

“Reed,” I exhale. “Why are you knocking? You live here, on the floor, but still.”

He ignores the jab, obviously because nothing irritates him more than admitting I’ve gotten under his skin.

Instead, he straightens, clearing his throat.

“Sophia Moreau, would you do me the honor of being my plus-one at the wedding tomorrow?” he says with ridiculous formality.

I laugh in his face, and the sound of my genuine laughter seems to surprise us both.

“Reed, we’re already going to the wedding. Together, as the maid of honor and best man, remember?”

He doesn’t break, his eyes stay locked on mine, steady, intent, tugging at me like invisible hands.

It's a stupid gesture, but there's something undeniably charming about it, and I hate myself for thinking so. To combat the unwelcome feeling, I shift into a mode of sugar-sweet sarcasm, lifting my chin and letting a smirk play on my lips.

“Thomas, I don’t go out with men who ask without bringing flowers. Very unprofessional.”

The smile he gives me is lethal. He holds up a finger, saying, ‘Wait,’ then bends down beside him and pulls out a bunch of tulips like he’d been hiding them for hours. My traitorous mouth curls before I can stop it. I stare at the bouquet, then at him.

“Why didn’t you lead with those?”

“It would've been awkward if you had said no.”

I roll my eyes so hard it hurts.

“Fine, I’ll go as your plus-one.”

His grin turns sharp, satisfied. “Knew it.”

“Don’t get excited, this is strictly charity work.”

Before he can fire back, someone downstairs yells that dinner’s ready. He glances at my hand like he expects me to take his arm.

Absolutely not.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I mutter. “I’m walking alone.”

I step past him, but of course he follows, matching every stride perfectly like we’ve done this our whole damn lives.

The second I enter the dining room, I meet Charles's stare. He looks at me, then at Thomas behind me, then back at me, and I swear if looks could kill, I’d be six feet under with tulips on my grave.

He waits for me to sit next to him, but I don’t get the chance.

“Oh, my favorites!” Elizabeth’s mom beams at the two of us from the end of the table, waving her hand like she’s summoning misbehaving children.

Both of us freeze.

She continues, delighted. “My little co-conspirators! Come, sit by me. I need the entertaining ones close.”

She kisses my cheek, then Thomas's, like she’s adopting us on the spot, and ushers us into the seats beside her.

For a brief, dangerous second, his knee brushes mine, and my stomach flips. I don’t move away, and neither does he. I glance at him, and he’s already looking at me. There’s no smirk, no challenge, just that quiet focus that makes my chest tighten, like he’s feeling the same pull and choosing not to acknowledge it.

CHAPTER 32