12. Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

Toby

T he last two mornings have gone exactly the same as this one.

Me, asleep, like a normal human. Only to be brought back from dreamland by the sound of the fucking blender before the sun has even finished getting out of bed.

Grunting, I flop over and wrap the blanket over my head to block out the noise. Yet somehow, it only seems to get louder.

Or maybe that's just the hangover talking.

I grumble, poke my head up above the back of the couch and stare daggers at the woman who thinks morning smoothies are the only way to start her day.

"Anna," I call, but it's no use. She's got earbuds plugged into her ears as she moves about the kitchen, mixing and chopping shit while the blender continues to pulverize whatever the hell she's already got in it.

Goddammit.

Whipping off the blanket with a huff, I curse the chill that settles into my bare skin and pad across the room to stand opposite the island separating me from Anna.

At least I remembered to fall asleep in shorts this time.

"What the fuck are you—"

" OhmyGod ," Anna screams when she turns, her startled hands flinging the strawberries in the air between us. "Jeffers! Where are your clothes?"

" Anna ," I mimic her high-pitched tone. "I've got the shorts on. Now, what the hell are you doing?"

She places a hand on her heaving chest. "Breakfast. Something you wouldn't know anything about."

"Oh, I've heard all about it the last three fucking mornings," I snap. "Some people like to actually sleep at some point."

Scoffing, she gathers the scattered fruit from the countertop and starts scraping the shit into the trashcan at her side. "Sleeping in is a luxury, Jeffers."

"What are you—" I snag some of the strawberries before she can throw them all off the side of the counter and into the dark abyss of the garbage. "So wasteful."

"I wouldn't need to toss them if you hadn't scared me half to death," she retorts.

Popping the handful in my mouth, I speak around the fruit. "Wouldn't have scared you if you knew how to make breakfast without using the goddamn blender before the sun's fully up."

She swipes her hands on a towel and pins me with a look.

"Seriously," I continue. "Who uses a blender for breakfast ."

"A blender is meant to be used for more than just margaritas. Jesus." She turns to the machine in question, it's low whir a steady sound she cuts off now that its contents are liquified.

"That's literally the only time I've used a blender."

Anna's gaze flings up to mine, a hand coming up to cover her dramatic gasp. "You know how to use a blender?"

"Har. Har," I deadpan and move around the island to the fridge. "There's all kinds of shit you don't know about me, Ms. Prune."

She sighs, doing her best to ignore me and pour her liquid breakfast into a cup.

Shaking my head, I retrieve milk and cereal and the biggest bowl I can find in the cabinet. The coffee pot is put on next and I lean against the counter with what used to be a butter bowl filled to the brim with floating Lucky Charms held beneath my chin.

They aren't my favorite, but it's what I'd opened last night before I realized there was a box of peanut butter puffs right next to it.

As I crunch the rainbow marshmallows between my teeth, my eyes follow Anna's silent form around the kitchen while she cleans up her mess.

She goes over each spot repeatedly, only stopping when she has touched every inch of the marble and returned every item she used—cleaned, dried, and straightened.

As if she was never here.

I'm left blinking after her when she finally disappears down the hall and slides the bedroom door closed.

Holy fuck.

Pushing off from the counter, I stand and stare down the hall as if the emptiness will explain what the hell I just saw.

It's not until the coffeepot beeps that I'm shaken from my stupor, heading to the machine, so many questions swirling around in my head.

There's no way.

When the first taste of brew finally hits my tongue, I shake away the inquisitions because the questions don't matter.

What does matter is how uptight the woman is about everything.

She's so stringent, straightlaced, and beyond stuck in the mud when it comes to anything even remotely fun.

We're in the mountains for Christ's sake and she's yet to even drink anything alcoholic, make a s'more in the fireplace, or get in the hot tub.

Bet she doesn't even own a bathing suit.

And if she did, it would be beige. In a single piece that covers her from head to toe.

But then an idea hits me at how I can make Ms. Prune let loose.

It all starts with a good old-fashioned wooded retreat experience.

Involving something alcoholic and some sticky marshmallows.