Hot Mess | N.H. (discontinued)

n i n e [ 9 ]

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Hot Mess:
c h a p t e r : n i n e  [ 9 ]

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"Maybe all one could do is is hope to end up with the right regrets." -Arthur Miller

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Emery

"Would you like some tea, dear?" Niall's mother asks me from her spot behind the kitchen counter. I look up at her from my awkwardly fidgeting hands and give a small nod.

"Um, yeah, sure," I respond awkwardly. She doesn't seem to notice—or care—though because she gives me a reassuring smile before pouring some of her homemade tea in a large mug for me. But even if she didn't acknowledge the thick tension of complete and utter awkwardness in the air, I still did. And it was past uncomfortable. At least she isn't screaming at you anymore.

"You alright?" Niall asks from across the table. "You look a bit knackered." He sits there with his hands folded together on the table in a lazy way as he leans forward on it, a small smile on his lips. His hair is laid across his forehead in a matted mess, sticking in every direction; bedhead, I suppose. His clothes—consisting of some black gym shorts and a gray sweatshirt—are disheveled and he looks tired, but even so, his eyes are still as bright blue as I've seen in pictures and talk shows. And—and I know this sounds ridiculous—but I can't help but notice how attractive he is.

"Em?"

I mentally shake those ridiculous thoughts out of my mind and snap back into reality when Niall says my name. "Uh, um—yeah, I'm fine," I sputter, rubbing my eyes. "Just a bit tired, is all."

Niall nods his head and purses his lips. Just then, Niall's mother comes walking in with a tray occupied with four mugs full of tea, each a different color than the other.

"Blue for Niall, green for Bobby, white for me, and red for Miss Emery," she says cheerfully, setting a mug down at each place set at the table. "Bobby, tea's ready!" she calls into the living room. Niall's father—Bobby I presume—grumbles back something to his wife about football before shutting the television he was watching off and shuffling into the kitchen.

"Maura, I was in the middle watchin' a deadly match between Nottingham and Derby!" Bobby cries dramatically—earning a glare from Niall's mother—slumping into the seat next to Niall, who's eyes light up immediately.

"Oh, who's winning?" he chirps excitedly, practically clinging onto his father for an answer. I try—unsuccessfully—to stifle back the small laughter that threatens to come out.

Niall's father smirks at his son before taking a sip of the tea sat in front of him. "Us, of course."

Niall lets out a loud cheer, throwing his hands in the air for extra emphasis. And this time I don't try to stop the laugh from slipping out of my mouth at the aroused boy in front of me who resembles an excited five year old in a toy store.

"What?" Niall asks as soon as he's calmed down, giving me a confused look.

I laugh and shake my head at him, taking a small sip of my tea (which is delicious). "You're just...funny."

"So I've heard," he shoots back with a wink.

"You watch football too, Miss?" Niall's father asks me.

I shrug. "Um, yeah, sometimes. My dad and I used to watch it all the time when I was a kid," I explain with a smile as I remember the memories.

"Oh, yeah? What team you guys rootin' for?" he wonders.