Page 59 of Bleed

I narrow my eyes. “Great, I’ll just stand here and stare at it until you decide, then.”

He doesn’t move, but his eyes stay glued to me, like he’s waiting to see what I’ll do next.

I fold my arms and remain stubbornly silent, lasting thirty seconds before I break.

“Is it ready yet?” I huff.

His mouth twitches with amusement. “It’s been less than a minute.”

“Maybe you should distract me while I wait, then,” I suggest.

He tips his head, considering. “How would you propose I do that?”

“You could show me what’s behind the other locked doors upstairs.”

His nostrils flare. “It’s just storage.”

“Maybe I find storage interesting,” I press, cocking a hip.

He frowns. “I doubt that.”

Then he turns without another word, beckoning me to follow with a flick of his chin. I hesitate before trailing after him, leaving the wine behind on the counter.

He heads into the living room and snatches the remote off the coffee table, switching the TV on. The screen blinks to life with some stupid home shopping network program, the volume low enough that the voices just blend into the background hum.

I blink. “What are you doing?”

“You requested a distraction.”

“Oh.” Right.

“What do you like to watch?” he asks, sinking onto one end of the long leather couch.

“Anything, really,” I say, and it’s true. I watch TV the same way I drink wine– fast, and usually just to keep my mind from spiraling out of control.

He flips through a handful of channels, finally settling on a cooking competition show. Contestants rush around plating some elaborate dessert while the judges hover nearby like vultures waiting for someone to fail.

I hesitate a second, then move in and take a seat on the opposite end of the couch, pulling my knees up and hugging them to my chest. The sofa’s so big there’s at least five feet of space between us, which somehow makes the tension worse.

“Is it weird to watch this when you don’t actually eat?” I ask, flicking him a sideways glance.

He shrugs. “The idea of eating is often better than the act itself.”

I roll my eyes, groaning. “Do you always talk in riddles?”

His brow furrows. “I don’t think so.”

I stare at him, his gaze lingering on me a moment longer before returning to the TV. The air between us suddenly feels charged, like a fuse waiting for a spark.

My attention wanders toward the kitchen where the decanter is still resting on the island. Then back to Elliott. Then the TV. I repeat the loop a few times before he finally sighs, pushing up from the couch and heading toward the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“To get the wine you keep staring at.”

Heat creeps into my cheeks and I turn away to hide my blush, a smile tugging at my mouth as I hear the sound of glasses clinking, then the slow pour of liquid.

A minute later, Elliott returns with two oversized wine glasses. He offers me one, the stem almost comically delicate between his large fingers.