Sparrow

He was being an ass again, but I kept trying, not letting my ego get the better of me. I pointed at the large dish on the island. “Pancakes. Right here, hot and fluffy. And hot chocolate, too. Do you want some whipped cream?”

I wanted him to remember the girl he wanted to marry. I wanted myself to forget that he was the man my father worked for. I wanted us to try and be something, even if it was stupid and naive.

“I don’t eat sugary crap,” he answered unapologetically, his voice bone-dry. “And I definitely don’t drink hot f*cking chocolate. But next time I’m hosting a tea party, I’ll borrow a tutu and you can help me fix some cupcakes.”

My ears pinked as I withdrew the plate of hot pancakes from the placemat, swallowing back the bitter lump in my throat. I marched to the sink and dumped the food with a loud clank. I broke his stupid, precious, probably expensive plate. Good.

Silent, Troy plucked a banana from the wire bowl on the countertop. He opened the fridge, pulling out some OJ and plain yogurt, and banged the fridge shut with his foot.

Still mostly naked. Still hard as stone.

“I’ll be in my office upstairs. Don’t forget dinner tonight,” he said, walking away. “I left another credit card on your nightstand. Try to look your part. No Keds bullshit or emo-kid hoodies. Got it?”

“Jesus Christ.” I scowled. “Chauvinist much?”

“Not much, just enough to want my wife to look like a woman and not a twelve-year-old boy who raided Hot Topic.”

I wanted to tell him he was being a dick, but knew it wouldn’t help my chances of scoring the job. Instead, I balled up my fists, ground my teeth and stormed out of the apartment, banging the door shut behind me.

I was practically able to feel the hair on my head graying when I jabbed at the elevator button aggressively, gave up after a few seconds—too pumped on my own boiling anger to stand still—and took the stairs down to the lobby of his building, two at a time. I climbed down all freaking fourteen floors and started my morning run without my gear or running shoes. Just Keds. The ass. All I had was tons of energy to burn.

And that was enough.

When my feet hit the cold, damp sidewalk, my breath evened. Finally, a minor bliss.

As I plugged in my earbuds and played “Last Resort” by Papa Roach to accompany my run—I needed something angry just like me—I already felt Connor on my heels, trying to catch up with my pace.

I was going to waste the day away, and fantasize about the million opportunities I’d have to shove a fork into my husband’s chest at dinner. The last thing I’d do was follow his instructions and become a sweet, pretty wife in a dress.

And every time he pushed—I’d pulled harder.



I DIDN’T BUY anything seductive or alluring for our dinner out, like Troy had ordered. In fact, I refused to leave the kitchen, drowning my frustrations in making food. Tons and tons of food. I used all the ingredients in the cupboards and fridge, and spent the day fussing over food for the shelter.

Hours of solitary cooking made me finally come to terms with the gravity of my situation. Until last night, I hadn’t exactly been sure what was happening. I hadn’t fully digested the fact that I had married this man.

But now it was real.

And it was scaring the hell out of me.

Connor was pacing back and forth in the living room, talking on the phone. I was almost tempted to use the opportunity to try and run away. Then again, where the hell would I go? My dad would hand me right back to Brennan, fearing the consequences of thwarting his boss. I couldn’t burden Lucy with my presence, and no loan shark was going to hand me enough to flee town, seeing as they all knew my husband or one of his family members, and at the very least, didn’t want to mess with him.

At four p.m., Maria stormed into the kitchen with a face like thundercloud, informing me that it was time to clean up all the mess I'd made and that I had to evacuate her kitchen before she grabbed me by the hair and did it herself (not in so many words, but her shouting in Spanish and hand waving certainly implied it). She was extra pissed off today, with a dash of furious, because she had a double shift both at Andrea’s and at Troy’s. Apparently he spilled some OJ in his study earlier in the morning, and of course, his hands were too precious to clean up the mess himself. Now she had to clean my mess, too.

She announced that Mr. Brennan would pick me up at eight p.m. from the lobby of our building and that I should be ready in an evening gown. I snorted into my chest, deeply focused on packing a double batch of mac and cheese. The amount of food I’d prepared could probably feed a whole army, and not a small one either. But cooking was therapeutic, and I needed a way to distract myself from my reality. From him.

“I don’t have an evening gown,” I grumbled, pivoting to the oven and taking out the coconut pies. I only had one little black dress in my closet. I wore it to weddings, funerals and I was planning to wear it to my first-ever date tonight. Anything in-between didn’t require fancy attire. In my opinion anyway.

“Too late to go buy,” she barked at me, disappointed with my inability to follow simple instructions from my husband. “What do you do? Mr. Brennan will be mad!”

“He’s always mad.”

Maria let out an exasperated sigh and turned around, fishing her cell phone out of her apron. She pressed the phone to her ear and shot me an annoyed glare. When the person on the other line answered, she started talking to them animatedly in Spanish. I wiped my hands on my pants, mildly interested in this turn of events.