The woman laughs, fluttering her giant fake eyelashes and brushing her shiny dark hair off her shoulders.
Glancing toward Melrose, I find her curled up on the end of the sofa, remote clenched in her manicured little hand, a fashion magazine butterflied across her chest.
“So we’re doing this?” I sit my beer on the coffee table and rest my hands on my hips, my fingertips digging into my flesh. “We’re actually doing this?”
“Doing what?” Her nose wrinkles. She might be an actress, but I can tell she’s playing dumb.
I sigh, but I’m not giving up. “There’s a game on TV. An extremely important game. And I’m missing it right now.”
“Don’t you have a TV in your room?” she asks.
“Nope,” I say. “This is my TV. And it’s the only one in the house. I’m sure your little housewives show will be on again this week. My game on the other hand? Kind of a one-time thing.”
“Yeah, well I checked, and they aren’t rerunning these episodes until Thursday, and I have an audition Thursday …”
“Yeah, well, that really sucks for you, doesn’t it?” I reach down and swipe the remote clean out of her hand.
Her jaw falls and I plop into the chair, switching the channel back to where it belongs.
Cavs are up again.
Jesus H. Christ, this girl is bad luck.
Melrose swipes the remote back. “What are you, twelve?”
“Nope. Not twelve. Just a guy who wants to watch a basketball game on his TV.”
“This might have been how you and Nick handled things, but this isn’t going to work with me,” she says. “All you had to do was ask nicely and I might have considered it. Instead you were a giant asshole, and that is why you won’t be watching your little game.”
I reach for the remote, but she holds it back, out of my reach, and then she changes the channel.
I stand up, towering over her. “Come on. Give it back.”
She takes a seat on the couch—my seat—and her attention moves toward the screen.
“Don’t ignore me,” I say. “Come on. Let’s stop playing this stupid game. We’re both adults. This is ridiculous.”
“You’re absolutely right, Sutter,” she says, still bestowing her attention upon a British woman who’s basically making out with her Pomeranian on the screen. “This is ridiculous.”
My hands rest on my hips. “And?”
“And the only viable solution to this little predicament is for you to go up the street to that sports bar on the corner and watch your game there.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s not like I can walk in and ask them to turn the station to Bravo,” she says. And I know she’s right, but it still doesn’t change the fact that her show plays on repeat 24/7 as well as on demand, but my game is live once and only once.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I pull in a hard breath and let it go.
“Hey, can you move to the side a bit?” she asks, waving her hand as she squints. “You’re blocking the TV.”
I don’t budge.
Instead I stand here, debating whether or not I’m going to stoop to an all-time low in the form of falling on my knees and begging her to hand over the remote.
The thought of missing out on Curry and Thompson doing their thing turns my blood into lava and makes my heart slam in my chest.
“God. Fine.” Melrose rises, tossing the remote onto the sofa. It bounces before falling to the ground. “If you’re going to keep standing there looking like a sad puppy dog, I won’t be able to enjoy my show anyway, so take it.”
I turn, instantly offended. “I don’t look like a sad puppy dog.”
Melrose laughs through her nose, her full lips curling at the ends. “You so do.”
I scoff as I step toward her. As much as I want to watch this game, now it feels like a consolation prize, a pity present. It doesn’t feel like I earned it fair and square, it feels like she’s caving in to me the way an exhausted mother caves in to a toddler who wants to eat mac and cheese for the eighth dinner in a row.
“Aren’t you going to watch your game?” She points to the remote, which is lying face down on the wood floor.
It’s almost half-time, which means I’ve got plenty of time to prove a point before she scampers off and does whatever the hell she does when she’s holed up in her room—practicing for auditions or texting Nick or whatever.
“You know I’m messing with you.” Melrose winks, dragging her hands through her blonde hair and gathering it into a messy bun on top of her head. Sliding a hair tie from her wrist, she secures it into place as the hem of her tank top rides up and exposes the soft flesh of her tan belly, and once again my attention lingers and my body betrays me until she promptly tugs it back into place. “Jesus. Can you stop checking me out for more than two seconds at a time?”