Victoria Aspen's life just turned inside out.
She has been forced to move into the house she used to spend every summer in. It's been so long since she was welcomed back into the family and this time... they didn't really have a choice.
But thi...
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"Will you shut up?" Mason groans and I hum louder. He grips his head and squeezes his eyes shut to try block me out. Not happening.
My humming comes out more like strained, wordless grunts roughly to the tune of Jingle Bells.
Mason hits his head against the wall, effectively smearing wet paint on his forehead and in his hair. "It's not even Christmas time!" He throws his hands into the air in exasperation. I have to stifle a snicker. I'm so getting under his skin and it is a great place to be.
"It's not even Christmas time." I mimic him in a childish voice and he sends me an icy death glare. We've painted almost all four walls in my room, though I'm sure I painted at least three. Mason hasn't been much use due to his over consumption of alcohol on Friday night. It's now Sunday, and though he was forced into renovation-mode by his mother, he somehow is still hungover.
Yeah, it boggles my mind, too.
"You need singing lessons." He snaps.
"You need therapy."
"Yeah, after today I will." He returns to his wall, seething and I can't help but snigger at his moodiness. Meh, I'm not trying to impress him with my singing abilities, anyway. If anything, the worse I sound the better.
There's a moment of silence that I think Sir Drinksalot is enjoying far too much. New song, I need a new song.
Oh, Yes!
"Rudolf the red nosed reindeer, had a very shiny nose..." I chime, volume far too loud for anyone to believe I'm only singing to myself.
"Uuuuggh," He grunts, but I don't stop.
Ooh, hold on. I switch carols to an even more irritating one.
"Deck the halls with bounds of Holly! Tralalalala lala la la!"
"I'm going to deck you if you don't shut up, Aspen." Mason barks, the threat clear in his voice. There's still paint drying in his hair. He's been colouring the far wall a dark, rich shade of turquoise whilst the rest are pastel aquamarine. Somehow the colour smeared on his forehead makes his eyes stand out all the more.
How does the boy make paint look good?
I poke my tongue out at him and continue belting out lyrics I don't even know that well. I'm improvising a lot here. Spinning on my foot, I pretend to be distracted with painting as I feel Mason's glare burning holes in the back of my head. There's no way I'm going to stop annoying him until he drowns himself in the paint bucket.
There's a distinct shuffling behind me, but before I can turn around something cold and wet hits me in the back. I take a moment to process what's happened before turning to find Mason wearing a smug smirk. He has his brush in hand, dripping on the drop sheets spread across the floor.
