“You hungry?” Anthony asks.
The bag of Lay’s that’s now empty on the counter didn’t quite fill me up, and the scent of wing sauce coming from the bags has me climbing off the stool and making my way to the table.
Anthony frowns at me. “Thought you were hurt? You trying to pull some shit over on my man, Boone? Because if you are, I’ll make sure you regret it.”
I plop down on one of the chairs and lift my ankle for him to inspect. The bruising is a lovely mix of black and purple today. “It looks worse than it feels, at least with the ibuprofen. As long as I don’t try to dance an Irish jig, I’m pretty sure walking on it isn’t going to kill me.”
With his frown still firmly in place, Anthony lifts a takeout container from the bag. “Boone ain’t gonna be happy to see you walking around. He said he didn’t even want you trying crutches, so I didn’t bring any.”
My eyes widen. “Are you kidding me? What does he expect me to do? Levitate to the bathroom if he can’t carry me?”
Anthony winces. “I’m guessing he didn’t think it all the way through. He’s just worried about you. Thinks all this shit is his fault.”
“I appreciate the concern, but I’m really okay. Seriously. Providing you don’t take the drugs away, it just aches a little.” I scan the containers as he continues to lift them out of the bags. “Did you bring enough for the entire band? Because this seems a little excessive for only a couple people.”
“Boone likes leftovers. Says he wrote some of his best songs eatin’ cold wings, so the man gets all the wings so he can eat ’em cold later.”
Interesting. That’s a little quirk I knew nothing about, but then again, there’s a lot I don’t know about Boone. I decide to go on a fact-finding mission.
“How old is he?”
Anthony’s gaze cuts to me. “You haven’t googled him?” When I shake my head, he looks truly surprised. “Shit, woman. You gotta be the only bitch ever been in his bed who hasn’t.”
I raise a hand. “Don’t call me a bitch. I don’t like it.”
Anthony shrugs. “Didn’t mean no disrespect.”
I shake it off. “I know, but I’d appreciate if you substitute some other word in the future.”
Before he responds, the back door shuts again and Boone appears in the breakfast nook, or really cavern, because it’s a huge chunk of the room.
“Thanks, man. You always know what I like.” Boone moves to stand behind me and drops his hands onto my shoulders. “You keep yourself entertained and off your ankle like a good girl?”
I open my mouth to tell the tiniest white lie, but Anthony beats me.
“When I came in, she was alphabetizing your spice cupboard.” He jerks his shoulder toward the kitchen, and Boone takes in the bar stool and mess of bottles on the counter that he walked by moments ago without noticing.
His hands tighten on my shoulders. “Ripley ...”
I crane my head around to look at him. “It’s not like you can expect me to sit on the couch and do nothing for hours. I’m pretty sure I don’t actually know how to do nothing. I’m used to being busy.”
Boone shakes his head and leans down to whisper in my ear. “You know how I mentioned I had plans for that amazing ass of yours? Now they include leaving my handprint on it to get my point across.”
My eyes go wide, and I glance at Anthony to see if he heard. Either he didn’t or he’s skilled at pretending.
When I don’t respond, Boone squeezes my shoulders again and drags his lips to my temple to press a kiss there.
He steps back and scans the containers. “What kind of wings do you want? We’ve got Caribbean jerk, Asian, hot, honey barbecue, and habanero.”
“Habanero and hot.”
He glances back at me. “The fact that you like ’em spicy shouldn’t surprise me at all.”
I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, but he loads up my plate and invites Anthony to eat with us.
There’s something about Boone inviting an employee to join us in mowing down this feast that hits me square in the chest. It’s one more instance of my preconceived notions being systematically proven wrong.
Don’t get me wrong, Boone’s still an arrogant asshole sometimes, but he’s not the entitled man diva I expected.