Thirteen
Evelyn
When Marcus returned home later that evening, he looked like he was in a foul mood.
I’d managed to produce a half-edible pasta dish from the ingredients in his surprisingly well-stocked fridge, so when he came in the door like a brewing thunderstorm, I was sprawled on his sofa with my still-wrapped feet on his fancy glass coffee table and a plate of food balancing against my boobs.
I pulled my feet off the table and straightened up a bit, attempting to look more like the kind of high-class girl I assumed he usually spent his time with. A task that was made somewhat harder by the wine I’d spilled on my t-shirt and the pair of my favorite sweatpants I’d climbed into the moment he left the flat. I grimaced when I realized what a mess I must appear, hoping he wasn’t regrett
