After We Collided (After, #2) by Anna Todd Read Online (FREE)
“She’s pretty,” he whispers into cupped hands.
“Yeah, she is. Isn’t she?” I nod and look up at Tess with her hair pulled up into some sort of nest on top of her head, her yoga pants and a plain T-shirt still on, and I nod again. She’s beautiful, and she doesn’t even have to try.
I know she can hear us still, and I catch a glimpse of her smile as she turns to finish her task in the kitchen. I don’t get why she’s smiling like that; so what if I’m talking to this kid? He’s still annoying, like all the other half-sized humans.
“Yeah, really pretty,” he agrees again.
“Okay, calm down, little dude. She’s mine,” I tease.
He looks at me with an O for a mouth. “Your what? Your wife?”
“No—fuck, no,” I scoff.
“Fuck, no?” he repeats.
“Shit, don’t say that!” I reach across the couch to cover his mouth.
“Don’t say ‘shit’?” he asks, shaking free of my hand.
“No, don’t say ‘shit,’ or ‘fuck.’ ” This is one of the many reasons I shouldn’t be around kids.
“I know they’re bad words,” he tells me, and I nod.
“So don’t say them,” I remind him.
“Who is she if she isn’t your wife?”
God, he’s a nosy little shit. “She’s my girlfriend.” I should have never got this kid talking in the first place.
He folds his hands together and looks up at me like a little priest or something. “You want her to be your wife?”
“No, I don’t want her to be my wife,” I say slowly but clearly so he can hear me and maybe get it this time.
“And you have a baby?”
“No! Hell, no! Where do you get these things?” Just hearing them aloud is stressing me out.
“Why do—” he starts to ask, but I cut him off.
“Stop asking so many questions.” I groan and he nods before grabbing the remote out of my hand and changing the channel.
Tessa hasn’t checked up on us in a few minutes, so I decide to go into kitchen and see if she’s almost finished. “Tess . . . are you almost done, because he’s talking way too much,” I complain, grabbing a piece of broccoli from the dish she’s preparing. She hates when I eat before a meal is ready, but there is a five-year-old in my living room, so I can eat this damn broccoli.
“Yeah, just another minute or two,” she answers without looking at me. Her tone is strange, and something seems off.
“You okay?” I ask her when she turns around with glassy eyes.
“Yeah, I’m fine. It was just the onions.” She shrugs and turns the faucet on to wash her hands.
“It’s okay . . . he’ll talk to you, too. He’s warmed up now,” I assure her.
“Yeah, I know. It’s not that . . . it’s just the onions,” she says again.
The little shit remains mute and just nods when Tessa asks him cheerfully, “Do you like the chicken, Smith?”