Page 10 of Unrivaled Love (D.C. Renegades #2)

Jo

Best Wishes, TTFN

The bunk I chose last night was comfortable enough but I had to stare into the eyes of Katniss as I fell asleep because she was glued to the underside of the bed above me.

Not taped or stapled at the corners. No, she was pasted on.

And as I fought sleep last night I couldn’t help but debate Peeta vs.

Gale and every argument landed on, she deserved someone who was both her childhood friend and devoted caretaker.

If she could have created a Geeta she would have been set for life.

I stretch and brush my teeth with some fruity flavored shit my sister’s kids must have left here. My travel skincare set saved the day and I run through my routine this morning, finding it settles me.

Until I realize all I have to wear is my dirty practice kit.

And I will not be walking around in the beer belly apron again.

The chances of running into Bryson are higher at the vacation home our families share but what are the fucking chances?

Shouldn't he be across the country celebrating his championship?

Why the hell is he here?

It doesn't matter. I'll lure him into the car with beef jerky or something and drive him to the airport today and all my problems will be solved.

Well. Not all. But my one, Bryson Svoboda sized, problem will be all cleared up .

I make my way up the stairs and am met with a stripe of blue painters tape across my path. A note is stuck to it. I rip the tape down and try to decipher the chicken scratch on the little square of paper.

Jo –

I'm not leaving but you're welcome to anytime.

Best wishes – Bry

Jerk.

I crumple the note, grumbling curses under my breath as I walk up the final two stairs and turn the corner to the living area.

Which looks like a laser security maze.

Or a cat’s fucking wet dream.

"What the fuck?" I ask the room as my eyes follow one string from the top of the kitchen cabinets to the leg of the couch and then it winds back around and through the stools on the island and back down to the table. "This must have taken him hours."

"Once I got started it wasn't so bad. And it'll be worth it to keep our spaces separated." Bryson chimes in from along the patio door where he's leaning casually eating a yogurt.

My yogurt.

My organic, free-range dairy farm, Icelandic yogurt.

"That's mine!" I scold as I fold over and start climbing through the maze. Each up and down causing little grunts to leave my mouth while the fire of revenge builds from an ember to a wildfire in my veins.

I pause and straighten up, one strand gets caught on my shoulder and I see the pendant light over the island swinging. He attached this shit to everything. I glance over at him and he's just noshing away on my yogurt. My six dollars a tub artisan yogurt.

What a booger brained dingleberry .

Energy renewed, I make my way through the rest of his maze. The amusement in his eyes is met with annoyance in mine and I get right up into his face as he flips the spoon backwards and sucks.

A slurping sound, that could be indecent if you had a dirty mind, comes from his mouth and I'm not sure if my heavy breathing is from the obstacle course I navigated or if I'm struggling to catch my breath because this is the closest I've been to Bryson Svoboda in years.

He’s right, in the last seven years he upgraded to a very nice smelling cologne.

It’s almost, dare I say, alluring.

I watch his eyes taking me in and I notice how his face has changed in the last decade. The baby fat is gone. He’s sporting stubble along his jaw. Little lines at the corners of his eyes as his smile spreads. He's more man than boy. Has he changed in other ways?

"Do you always wear your uniform?" He asks as he pulls the spoon from his mouth and uses it to indicate my outfit.

"No." I sneer and then I snatch the yogurt cup from his hand. I don't even have to look to tell you it's empty. "Don't eat my food."

"Ah so we're not the sharing groceries type of roommate?"

"We're not roommates."

"Cohabitators?"

"We're nothing except enemies."

"Eh, I'd call us rivals."

"What's the difference?" I know I'm getting baited but I’ll be damned if he gets the last word.

"’Enemies’ is so," he pauses while he thinks of the right word. He always scored higher than me on his English papers so I know he has a wide vocabulary at his disposal. "Dramatic."

"I am not dramatic!" I yell in his face and all he does is raise an eyebrow in response .

Fine, yelling might have been an overaction but I am not dramatic.

"I hate you." I grumble as I cross over to the refrigerator.

I get hangry under normal circumstances, especially first thing in the morning.

And dealing with the giant irritation that is Bryson Svoboda on an empty stomach is a recipe for disaster.

I hurdle over one length of yarn and duck under the next only to find myself face-to-face with a saran wrapped fridge.

"Consider the yogurt payment for throwing away my cookies.” Bryson says as he flips the spoon in the air. “And I hid the scissors." He steps back to jump-shot his spoon into the sink. It clatters with the force of an airplane landing in the back yard and my shoulders hike up to my ears.

He gives me a wink and then slides out the patio door.

With my hands on my hips, I survey the room. He must have used a dozen skeins of yarn. I can see where he tied one to the next meaning this is all one giant string.

I don't need scissors to get through this though. A sharp knife should do.

I move over to the silverware drawer and find yarn looped through the handle in a figure eight between it and the cabinet below. I try to open one with the other but get stopped by a baby proofing lock.

"Fucking toddlers!" I yell out and I spin as fast as I can to where the butcher block knife holder is. I'll go for the big guns.

Even from a few feet away I can see the knives are gone and another note is attached to the block with blue fucking painters tape.

Jo -

No way am I giving you access to weapons. This will be a clean fight. Pranks only.

TTFN - Bry

Alright, a fight he wants? Then a fight is what he'll get.