Page 92 of The Auction
I can’t help laughing at the memory from a few days ago. The cereal that went flying. The milk dripping off the tip of his nose while he stood there like a statue.
“Oh, it’s funny, huh?”
Before I can answer, a warm splatter of tomato sauce hits my shirt.
I gasp. “Did you just?—”
“Not so funny now, huh?” Jaxon says, grinning like the devil licking sauce off his fingers.
I grab a piece of lettuce with just enough dressing to be dangerous and toss it at him. “You deserved it.”
“Well, I think you deserve this.”
The butter knife is already in his hand, loaded with a generous glob. Before I can dodge, he flicks it. The butter hits me dead in the face with a wet slap.
I freeze. He freezes. Then he bursts out laughing so hard he doubles over, gripping his stomach.
I wipe the butter off slowly, stand, and round the table. He’s still laughing when I slide my fingers into a handful of sauced spaghetti noodles and stop right in front of him.
“You want to know something, Mr. Kane?”
His grin falters just slightly. “Do tell me.”
“I went back to my room,” I say sweetly, using my free hand to undo a button on his shirt, “and laughed my ass off at that stupid blue Fruit Loop that stuck to your cheek.”
I stretch his shirt open at the collar, and shove the noodles down his chest. Flattening my hands over his shirt, I smear my hands, pressing the cold pasta into his skin through the fabric.
“Oh, come on!” He leans back in his chair with a strangled sound, eyes wide, sauce dripping down his shirt.
I return to my seat, victorious.
“Oh, you think you’re walking away from this?” He grabs the salad bowl, takes a handful, and flings it at me. Lettuce, dressing, and tomato chunks hit my arm and shoulder. “Consider that a counter-offer.”
I lob a slice of bread back at him, hitting him square in the chest. “Stop being a child.”
He scoops up a meatball and nails me in the neck. “Haha! Bullseye.”
“That’s it.”
We’re both laughing now, working around the table, pulling plates and serving dishes to our sides like we’re defending territory. I get my hands on the serving platter of meatballs, the sauce gleaming under the lights.
“Take cover!” He calls out like he’s commanding troops to retreat.
He dives for the kitchen, shielding himself behind the open fridge door as I fire one at him. “Are you seriously lobbing beef grenades at me?”
Another meatball sails and splats inside against a shelf. He stares at it… then looks at me with a dangerous glint and a sneaky smile.
“Jaxon. Don’t you dare.”
“Oh, Cricket.” He shakes his head in mock disappointment. “My sweet Cricket.”
He reaches in and pulls out the tiramisu trifle, setting the beautiful glass bowl on the table. Layers of cream and espresso-soaked cake stare me down like they know what’s coming.
“I worked hard on that,” I warn.
He digs in with one massive hand, scooping up a pile.
“And I work hard at making sure I win every fight I’m in.”
