There was a lot to be said about Leah's trust, or mistrust, of Evan that she was willing to sit on that roof to piss him off. For one thing, she wasn't sitting quite as close to the edge as he was, although it was difficult to say which of them was more likely to shove the other. Leah was oblivious to the inner workings of the Marchand mind, and considering she was the one pestering him? It made it all the more likely that, given enough provocation, he'd toss her to the hungry horde down below.
How the hell did rich fucks get these bottles open? Maybe she could twist it off. Nope, that wasn't working. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Evan glance around, and she peered up, eyes narrowing when she noticed the tiny condescending smile beginning to appear. She was tempted to ask him what the fuck he was looking at, but figured that would sound childish and an invitation to more scorn.
Tearing her gaze away from his, Leah put her full attention to the bottle. Short fingernails dug uselessly at the wire cage. It gave a little, yet did far more damage to her fingers than anything else. When Evan spoke again, Leah's growing frustration added more heat to her words. "If you're so worried about them, why not grace them with your company? I'm sure you're just dying to mingle with them."
"Perks of being so damn likeable, I guess. It's a curse, I know."