Page 57 of The Auction
But no.
She opens the other fridge door.
It swings wide—faster than it needs to—and clips my elbow right as I bring the spoon to my mouth.
The impact jolts my arm and launches a full arc of cereal into my face. Cold milk splashes across my chest, dripping in lazy trails down my abs before hitting the floor in a slow, humiliating patter.
A fluorescent-colored ring sticks to my cheek. A purple one lands in the waistband of my sweats.
There’s a bright green one perched on my knuckle like a silent witness to me being slapped in the face by some fucking cereal.
She remains completely silent.
Doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even pause as she reaches into the opposite door, takes the creamer from its place, and pours it into her coffee like nothing happened.
And I just stand there, staring over the top of her head as she moves. My face still wet. Milk sliding down my side. Cereal clinging to my skin like a goddamn garnish.
She returns the bottle to its spot in the door, gently closes it, and walks away without so much as a glance in my direction.
Her steps are unhurried. Her mug is full. Her expression remains unreadable.
And I don’t say a thing.
Not because I’m not pissed—I am. I’m fucking furious, and sticky, and dangerously close to launching this entire bowl into the sink.
But I’m not going to break.
She’s the one who started this. She’s the one who walked away yesterday. And I’m not giving her the satisfaction of thinking I’ll be the one to cave.
Not a fucking chance.
I’ll choke on this fucking cereal if I have to but she’s going to be the one that cracks first.
Captains log, Day 2 of the silent standoff.
Morale is low. Discipline is lower.
Yesterday was hell.
At some point between her cereal assault and my vow to keep my damn mouth shut until she gives in, we seemed to reach a mutual, unspoken agreement: if we’re going to be petty, we’re going to beextraabout it.
She started the escalation.
Somewhere around noon, she changed into shorts that were—at best—three inches of fabric and attitude. Black, skin-tight, unapologetically short. Paired with a sports bra that was definitely more bra than sport.
Then she hit my gym.
Mygym.
Just strutted in, put on her headphones, and climbed onto the treadmill like it was hers.
I watched from the security feed in my office for a full minute before I caved.
Went to my room. Dropped to the floor, doing as many push-ups and sit-ups as I could squeeze into five minutes.
Just enough to justify the sweat.
Then I splashed water on my chest, let it drip down my abs, and threw on a pair of hoochie-daddy shorts.
