Nicole Harper
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My space lasted all of twenty minutes.
Just as I slid onto a stool in the kitchen, Tristan walked in, his eyes finding me immediately.
He arched an eyebrow when he saw me eating, then his gaze dramatically drifted to the space opposite my plate, which was empty. He nodded to himself and walked over to the stove to see that there were no leftovers, then he walked around the counter and sat down opposite me. “Where’s mine?”
My eyes snapped toward him. The audacity. “Do I look like your housewife or something?” The words came out more bitter than I wanted. “I’m not your slave or your housekeeper. Or do you pay me to make food for you?”
Tristan opened his mouth, but only a chuckle escaped it. It aggravated me even more. He wasn’t even taking me seriously. I expected him
