All the Lies We Tell (Quarry Road #1)(31)

She looked him over. “It’s not weird. I need to get changed before everyone gets here. You didn’t go in to work today?”

“Nah.” He’d thought about it, but Alicia would take care of things better than he ever could.

“Are you planning to go tomorrow?” Brow furrowed, Theresa looked him over with that same wrinkled nose from earlier.

“Look, you can get off my case, okay? All of you can get off it.” He drained the beer and tossed the empty bottle into the garbage with a clatter of glass. He took the second—the one she didn’t want—from the fridge, and popped the top without looking at her.

“Sorry.” Her voice was cool. Theresa glanced at the teapot clock that had hung over the sink forever. “You’re right. It’s not really any of my business. I need to go get changed before people get here.”

“And you want to know what else is weird? You.”

She turned back to look at him with narrowed eyes. “Me?”

“Yeah. You showing up here after all this time, and you’re staying in the house? That’s weird.” Ilya tipped the bottle at her, enjoying the way the word clearly needled at her. Getting a rise out of her.

“Your mother offered,” Theresa said after a pause. “It was nice of her.”

“In this house with a shitty shower and drafty windows? And that bed’s hard as a rock. Don’t tell me it’s not.” He laughed harshly. “You’d be better off in a hotel.”

Theresa frowned. “Why are you always such a colossal dick, Ilya? Really. I haven’t seen you in a long time, we have nothing to be angry at each other for, and I haven’t done a damned thing to you. Ever. I mean, are you holding a grudge against me because I used your toothpaste a couple decades ago, or what?”

The truth was, he had no idea why he was so bent on being such an * to her. In reply, he set the bottle on the counter and crossed his arms. Theresa rolled her eyes.

“Fine. I’ll pack up my things and be out of here tonight, then. I’m sure I can get a room somewhere, even this late. I’ll leave after the shiva is over.” Theresa went to the table and rustled around in her bag for a moment, glaring. She stopped to look up at him. “Or maybe I should just go now? Since obviously I’m causing such a problem for you.”

Now Ilya felt exactly like the giant dick she’d accused him of being. It was a stupidly familiar feeling, only this time instead of keeping up with it, he sighed. “Ah, shit. Theresa . . .”

“What?” She stood and put her hands on her hips.

“Sorry.” He attempted what was meant to be a charming smile, the one that usually worked on the women he’d pissed off. He’d had a lot of practice using it.

Theresa didn’t seem charmed. “Does that usually work for you? The ‘Aw shucks’ look?”

There didn’t seem to be much point in denying it. Ilya grinned. “Yes. Usually.”

“You are your mother’s son, Ilya.”

This set him back a step, a hard one. He frowned. “Harsh.”

“Look . . .” Theresa sighed, then gathered the thickness of her hair in one hand to tie it on top of her head with the elastic band she tugged from her wrist. She gestured. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“About what?” Ilya reached for his beer, surprised to find it had somehow emptied faster than he could remember drinking it. He bent to open the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. He poured himself a glass, neat. Offered her the bottle just to see what she’d do.

Theresa gave him a hard look and made no move to take the bottle. “About anything. Or maybe you’d rather let the liquor listen.”

“Hey.” Ilya sipped, grimacing at the kick of whiskey against the back of his throat. “Now who’s being a dick?”

She laughed, just a little. “Touché.”

They stared at each other for a few seconds. Ilya sipped more whiskey. It was smooth going down, but he put the glass on the counter without finishing it. He didn’t have a problem drinking alone, but it looked like he had one drinking while being judged. He scrubbed a hand through his hair.

“Shit,” he said.

Theresa pulled out the kitchen chairs, one for him and one for her. She gestured until he sat, then went to the fridge to pull out the fixings for sandwiches. Deli meat, cheese, pickles, mustard, mayo. Rolls from the back he hadn’t noticed, along with a container of macaroni salad. She laid it all out along with a couple of plates while he watched.

“Eat,” she said.

“You sound like Babulya.”

Theresa smiled. “She was a smart lady. I’m starving. If you don’t want to eat, fine, but I’m going to murder a roast beef with cheddar.”

“You eat a lot,” Ilya said.

Theresa snorted soft laughter and shook her head, giving him an amused glance. “Yeah? And?”

“No and,” he said. “Just an observation.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Your grandmother spent a lot of time with me in this kitchen, making sure I was fed. It feels like the thing to do when someone needs taken care of.”

If that was what she thought of him, she was going to be in for a sad surprise, but that she might think it of him had Ilya swallowing the smart-ass comment he’d been prepared to make. Instead, they both made towering sandwiches mostly in silence, broken only by requests to pass the mustard or hand over the pickles. He had to admit, it was the right idea. He didn’t need to be taken care of, but it felt kind of nice to let someone try.