Page 45 of Bad Influence
“And I don’t need your permission to care about your safety.” I push the medicine bottle toward her.
“Why do you have to be so frustrating? I didn’t drink that much.”
“You couldn’t even walk in a straight line.”
She opens her mouth to argue because she just loves to argue with me. I don’t give her the chance, though. I step forward until I’m directly in front of her and her back is pressed against the island. There’s a sliver of distance between, just enough for air to pass through, and nothing else. I can smell her floral body wash.
Caroline’s mouth snaps shut and she swallows, tilting her head back to look at me.
“Caroline, take the damn medicine.” I lean down slightly, myeyes never leaving her wide grey ones. “Don’t force me to make you swallow.”
Reaching behind her, I grab the Advil bottle and twist open the cap. Taking out a pill, I hold it up.
“Open,” I command.
Obediently, Caroline opens her mouth, sticking her tongue out. Her cheeks are blooming the same pink as the color of her nightwear. Her eyes don’t lower from mine as I place the pill on her tongue. Handing her the glass of water, I watch until she empties all of it.
Once the glass is empty, she hands it back to me. I set it on the counter, knowing I should step back now. Instead, my hand moves of its own accord, reaching back to remove the hair stick. Her hair unravels around her shoulders like a dark waterfall, and I can’t stop myself from picking up a strand and feeling it between my thumb and forefinger.
It’s as soft as I expected. Caroline’s breath hitches as the back of my hand brushes against her shoulder. The brief catch in her breath is enough to bring me back to my senses. I drop her hair like I’ve been burned and take a step back.
Caroline shivers as the cold air of the apartment hits her.
“I’m—”
She arches an eyebrow.
Fuck, what am I? Definitely not sorry.
I push my hands through my hair, turning away from her. Why do I keep making things complicated for myself? I should let her do whatever she wants. Once again, she’s not my fucking responsibility. I’ll have to keep repeating it until I believe it.
Maybe she knows I’m not going to say anything because she sighs deeply, stepping around me to go to her room. I stand there and watch her walk away.
Halfway to her room, she pauses and turns back, walking to the fridge. I expect her to be looking for a late night snack. She surprises me by reaching for her wedding invitation.
“In case you won’t ever admit it to yourself, there’s not goingto be a wedding.” She turns to look at me, standing in the middle of my kitchen in her tiny clothes, her hair wild. Slowly, she tears the wedding card, holding eye contact as she does.
“No, I don’t have cold feet,” Caroline continues, while she tears another piece of the wedding card. “I’m not drunk from four cocktails. I’m not having second thoughts. The only way I’ll ever marry Beckett is if he clubs me over the head and carries my unconscious body down the aisle. Even then, the first thing I’m doing as soon as I return to my senses is stab him in the ass,again, and the second is filing for divorce.”
Walking to the trash can, she throws away the pieces of her wedding card. They rain down like confetti. There’s a wild energy around her that’s electrifying.Thisis who she hides from people, the person they want to suppress because she’s just a little too wild, when the wildest thing she ever does is speak her mind.
“You stabbed Beckett in the ass?” I ask. Because I’m not sure I’ve heard her correctly.
“That’s what you’re focusing on?” She’s bewildered.
“It’s the most surprising and out of context thing you’ve said!”
A small, almost proud smile tilts up her lips. “Yes, I stabbed him in the ass.” She frowns. “And then his mistress called the police and had me arrested.”
“You have a record?” I ask. I’ve been missing out on a lot of fun gossip, apparently.
“Again, focusing on the wrong thing,” she says.
“Again, the most surprising and out of context thing you’ve said.”
Does she expect me to be surprised that Beckett is a cheater? My father wanted a son who was just like him, and he’s clearly succeeded with Beckett.
Sighing, she walks back to the fridge and this time, she does grab a snack, the baked mac and cheese she made yesterday. And by she, I mean me. Obviously. I’m not letting her near a hotoven. She slices off a big chunk of it and puts it on a plate before microwaving it.
