Page 11 of Married to the Scottish Player
Not a fucking chance. I was here first. “Too bad we’re both selfish and stubborn.”
“Are you calling me selfish?”
I nod, leaning to grab a grape. Pop it into my mouth. She must have brought them, because I sure as shit didn’t.
Annabelle pulls them out of my reach. “Don’t touch my grapes.”
“See?” I smirk knowingly. “Selfish.” I lean across the counter again, closer this time. “Just give me one grape, Annabelle. One. I’ve had along day of being massaged, and now I’m being denied basic fruit access in my own damn rental.”
“Co-rental,” she corrects, and pops a grape into her mouth without breaking eye contact.
“Are you taunting me?”
Her shoulders lift. “Probably.”
I reach for the bowl again.
She yanks it back. “Dude. You’re like a squirrel hoarding snacks before winter.”
Truthfully, I couldn’t give a shit about the grapes. It’s the principle of the matter, denying me food in my own place, which she’s trying to take over. The principle of being deniedbasicnourishment in the very cottage I booked with my own credit card.
My knee throbs.
“Did you know,” I say slowly. “In some cultures, refusing to share food is considered a declaration of war. ’Cause I knew.”
“Inthisculture,” she says, smacking on another grape. “It’s called ‘setting boundaries.’”
“Agree to disagree.”
She clutches the bowl protectively to her chest. “You didn’t buy these.”
“Youdidn’t book this place,” I fire back. “Not first, anyway.”
Annabelle slides one solitary grape across the counter. Slowly. Like it’s hush money. Or a bribe.
I eye it skeptically.
Then I eyeball her.
Then the grape.
“You’re giving me a pity grape?”I don’t want it.
“It’s a peace grape.”
“There isnothingpeaceful about this moment.”
She raises a brow. “Take it or leave it.”
I lean back, leaving the grape. I would rather hold a grudge and limp through the week by myself than accept her olive branch.
War is way more fun.
She watches me, expecting I’ll cave. When I don’t—no one likes grapes that much—her smile deepens like I’ve played directly into her hand. Please. Give me a damn break.
“Suit yourself,” she says, poppingmygrape intohermouth. Slowly. Eyes locked on mine like it’s a power move.
Oh, it’s on.
