A Runaway Mate

Chapter Thirteen. ✓

Rebel’s Point of View.

   The chair scraped against the tile on the kitchen floor. I slightly grimaced from the sharp sound as Finn stood to his full height. He didn’t look at me as he whispered, “They’ll love you.” 

   And without a reasonable explanation, Finn turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving me confused and hungry. 

   The sound of the backdoor opening and slamming shut echoed through the house. What did I say that mad him so angry?

   I sighed as my stomach continued to remind me of the lack of food I hadn’t eaten. 

   Gently pushing the chair I sat on away from the table, I started looking through the limited choices of food. Opening a cupboard, only dry noodles could be found. Holding the pack in front of my face, my eyes skimmed the cooking directions. 

   Fill up with water, place into microwave for three minutes, and enjoy. Easy.

   Tearing off the plastic covering and taking out the flavor packet, I filled the container with water and placed it into the sleek, black microwave. Pressing a button, the machine came to life. 

   I sighed and drummed my fingers on the counter. Turning on my heel, I walked to the bathroom. 

   Once my bladder was emptied and my hands had been washed, I tried fixing my unruly hair. 

   I was pinching my cheeks, trying to get color into my face, when a loud popping sound met my ears. My movements froze, my eyebrows dipping together. A faint scent of smoke drifted through the air. 

   Upon running into the kitchen with wide eyes, dark gray smoke poured from the closed microwave door. 

   “Shit, shit, shit,” I chanted as I opened the microwave and an endless supply of smoke drifted out. My hand fanned the air and I rushed to the kitchen window in hopes to relieve the stench. 

   Without thinking, I grabbed the plastic container out of the machine. My face twisted as the heated plastic slightly burned my hands. Placing the container into the sink, I huffed out a breath. 

   How the hell do dry noddles burn?

  Pondering over the question with my hands on my hips, the backdoor opened. Footsteps sounded down the hall and into the kitchen. Turning my head, Finn had a blanket around his waist, naked from the waist up. 

   His face was pulled into an expression signaling that he could clearly still smell the smoke, his eyes found the burnt noodles. He turned to look at me, his features portraying what he was thinking. The how-the-fuck-did-you-manage-to-burn-noddles look. 

   “I was asking myself the same question,” I defended myself. 

   Finn walked towards me, reaching around the grab the directions. He smelled of male and nature. 

   “Not filling water to fill line may result in combustion of the product,” Finn read off the directions to me. “How much water did you put in?” 

   I broke our eye contact to look at my wringing fingers and mumbled, “I kinda just put in a random amount . . .”

   I was pleasantly surprised when Finn didn’t get angry, but instead he laughed. He dropped the directions onto the counter. “What am I gonna do with you?”

   “Make me food.”

   “All right,” he said, smiling down at me, “you go into the living room and don’t come into the kitchen.”