out of her quilt.
She took inventory. A frown, but nothing teary going on in the eye department. A desire to hide out, sleep some more and guilt him over his great sleep... A martyr complex about her own sleep, which had been anything but restful.
She
was
mad at Anson.
Weird. She rarely ever got mad at anyone. So rarely she couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten angry about anything. When someone disappointed her, she usually just got sad, and then moved on.
No matter that she’d playfully threatened to punch him yesterday, she had never engaged in any sort of violence. But now? She might be able to do something aggressive. Like throw something at him. Pelt him with scrambled eggs.
Well, she just wouldn’t think about him. Do whatever needed doing. Ignore him.
Mira probably needed help anyway, and she’d have to sleep at some point...so maybe Ellory wasn’t off the hook anyhow.
She crawled out from beneath the quilt, stood and shook it out, then carefully folded it before draping over the back of the couch.
“Not speaking to me today?”
No. Not speaking to him today. She pretended he was talking to the dog and went about getting her stuff together. She dug a fresh skirt from her bag, and then another... As they weren’t as substantial as yesterday’s barely substantial skirt, she pulled them on over the unflattering long thermal underwear she’d been wearing since yesterday. She hadn’t brought any clothes-drying racks with her, naturally. And there was no hot shower. No sunshine. Because winter sucked, and winter in Colorado sucked even more.
She pulled on a fresh sweater, yanked from out of her collar the braid she’d worked her long hair into before sleeping, and went to wash up.
However they’d been cooked, she’d eat the damned eggs. Whatever realizations she might’ve come to last night seemed much harder to follow through with this morning. It took concentrated effort not to wonder where the eggs were sourced—or any of the other ingredients.
They were probably from chickens full of hormones, just like she’d felt she was since the grave doctor had grumbled into her life: full of hormones.
Sighing, she grabbed a handful of sprouts from the bin from the third-day ready-to-eats, rinsed them and sat at the table, her back to Anson.
This would teach her not to prepare ahead of time for these types of situations. With the predictable nature of the power to the lodge, she should have been making and storing granola bars and trail mix, dehydrating fruit—just doing something besides growing sprouts...
Max came around and rested his chin on her knee, giving her big sad eyes.
Okay, half of a sandwich for her and half for Max. She pulled the sprouts off his half and handed it to the dog, who took the sandwich and ran off to eat it.
“He has already eaten.”
Well, he’d just eat more.
Ellory took a bite of her sandwich in silence.
“Did I do something to tick you off?”
Yes. Probably. She just wasn’t sure what it was.
Maybe it was the rejection. Or the double kiss and run. Or the couch.
“I’ll take the couch tonight.” He pulled out the other chair at the table and sat where she couldn’t ignore him as effectively.
She finished with her current bite before even trying to answer. It’d be the height of irony to be killed by foods that she usually avoided because they were bad for you. “Don’t bother. I’ll find another room.” There, she was even proud that she managed to speak in a completely level and natural-sounding voice.
Anson gave a low whistle, leaning back in his chair until it tilted on the back legs, and linked his hands behind his head. “You really are mad.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
M AX CAME BACK for more and Anson set himself back upright, snapped his fingers and pointed to the fire, and the dog obediently went to lie down.
Ellory took a big bite of her terrible sandwich and considered giving the rest to the dog.
“Did something happen that I’m
She took inventory. A frown, but nothing teary going on in the eye department. A desire to hide out, sleep some more and guilt him over his great sleep... A martyr complex about her own sleep, which had been anything but restful.
She
was
mad at Anson.
Weird. She rarely ever got mad at anyone. So rarely she couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten angry about anything. When someone disappointed her, she usually just got sad, and then moved on.
No matter that she’d playfully threatened to punch him yesterday, she had never engaged in any sort of violence. But now? She might be able to do something aggressive. Like throw something at him. Pelt him with scrambled eggs.
Well, she just wouldn’t think about him. Do whatever needed doing. Ignore him.
Mira probably needed help anyway, and she’d have to sleep at some point...so maybe Ellory wasn’t off the hook anyhow.
She crawled out from beneath the quilt, stood and shook it out, then carefully folded it before draping over the back of the couch.
“Not speaking to me today?”
No. Not speaking to him today. She pretended he was talking to the dog and went about getting her stuff together. She dug a fresh skirt from her bag, and then another... As they weren’t as substantial as yesterday’s barely substantial skirt, she pulled them on over the unflattering long thermal underwear she’d been wearing since yesterday. She hadn’t brought any clothes-drying racks with her, naturally. And there was no hot shower. No sunshine. Because winter sucked, and winter in Colorado sucked even more.
She pulled on a fresh sweater, yanked from out of her collar the braid she’d worked her long hair into before sleeping, and went to wash up.
However they’d been cooked, she’d eat the damned eggs. Whatever realizations she might’ve come to last night seemed much harder to follow through with this morning. It took concentrated effort not to wonder where the eggs were sourced—or any of the other ingredients.
They were probably from chickens full of hormones, just like she’d felt she was since the grave doctor had grumbled into her life: full of hormones.
Sighing, she grabbed a handful of sprouts from the bin from the third-day ready-to-eats, rinsed them and sat at the table, her back to Anson.
This would teach her not to prepare ahead of time for these types of situations. With the predictable nature of the power to the lodge, she should have been making and storing granola bars and trail mix, dehydrating fruit—just doing something besides growing sprouts...
Max came around and rested his chin on her knee, giving her big sad eyes.
Okay, half of a sandwich for her and half for Max. She pulled the sprouts off his half and handed it to the dog, who took the sandwich and ran off to eat it.
“He has already eaten.”
Well, he’d just eat more.
Ellory took a bite of her sandwich in silence.
“Did I do something to tick you off?”
Yes. Probably. She just wasn’t sure what it was.
Maybe it was the rejection. Or the double kiss and run. Or the couch.
“I’ll take the couch tonight.” He pulled out the other chair at the table and sat where she couldn’t ignore him as effectively.
She finished with her current bite before even trying to answer. It’d be the height of irony to be killed by foods that she usually avoided because they were bad for you. “Don’t bother. I’ll find another room.” There, she was even proud that she managed to speak in a completely level and natural-sounding voice.
Anson gave a low whistle, leaning back in his chair until it tilted on the back legs, and linked his hands behind his head. “You really are mad.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
M AX CAME BACK for more and Anson set himself back upright, snapped his fingers and pointed to the fire, and the dog obediently went to lie down.
Ellory took a big bite of her terrible sandwich and considered giving the rest to the dog.
“Did something happen that I’m
Similar Books
