“I’m twenty-three, jackass,” she snaps back.
I grunt, choosing to ignore her. I grab her designer luggage, dragging it toward the stairs. The wheels catch on the edge of the rug, resisting like even her suitcase doesn’t want to be here.
What the fuck did she pack in here, boulders?
I don’t say a word as we make our way upstairs. She trails behind me, probably pouting, definitely glaring daggers at the back of my head.
Since I’m such a gentleman, I made sure the guest room was livable before she got here.
The room’s lined with warm, weathered wood, walls still carrying the scent of cedar and clean linen. There’s a handmade rug on the floor, earthy colors pulled into soft patterns. The bed’s solid, reclaimed wood, neutral tan sheets, and a few shelves on the wall for her endless shit.
I glance back at her as I set her luggage down. “Is this up to your standards, princess?”
She exhales sharply, rolls her eyes, and shoves past melike I’m the inconvenience in her life. Her suitcase slams into the wall with a heavy thud as she tosses it through the doorway, and slams the door shut behind her.
I stare at it for a beat, running a hand over my jaw. This is going to be a fucking nightmare.
I don’t knowwhat the fuck I expected when I was forced to house my best friends daughter. It’s barely the first day and she’s given me a damn headache already.
She slammed the door so hard in my face, I’m surprised the hinges didn’t explode off.
Fucking brat.
“Such an entitled little thing,” I grumble as I pull a skillet from the rack. “Like I fucking begged her father to be here.”
I chop up some potatoes, throwing them in the pan with butter and rosemary, then grill some chicken. She can side-eye this meal all she fucking wants, this isn’t a five-star fucking resort. I’m not about to whip up some masterpiece to appease her Los Angeles tastebuds.
When everything is ready, I plate two meals and, against my will, walk to the bottom of the wooden stairs.”
“Food’s ready!” I shout.
Nothing.
I wait for a beat whilst wiping my hands on a towel. “Catalina!”
Still nothing.
Then, loud music pours through the upper deck of the house.
What the actual fuck is that noise?
It starts as a low hum, then this ungodly sound hits. A distorted bass drop so aggressive I feel it in my goddamn spine. A high-pitched screech follows, like a UFO’s getting ready to land in my living room.
I freeze in place at the bottom of the stairs, eyes squinting at the ceiling because what the actual fuck.
What kind of fucking music is this?
I march halfway up the stairs, shouting at the top of my lungs. “You can’t just sit up there and starve, you need to eat something!”
The music blasts louder in response. Her voice shrieks through the beat, singing off-key, screaming whatever lyrics are blended within the track.
“I WANNA RUN AWAYYYY-I WANNA RUN AWAYYY-ANYWHERE OUT THIS PLACE-”
Oh for fucks sake.
I climb the stairs in two angry strides, barreling down the hall, and shove her door open with a growl caught in my throat. My eyes land on her on the bed in her fucking designer sweat set and that infuriating lavender bow, jumping like a damn orangutan without a care in the world.
She turns to me mid-chorus, screaming the lyrics right in my face like I came up here to join her.
