Page 73 of Diamond In The Rough

And being irresponsible, in my world, is a recipe for disaster.

I turn from the bed and make my way into the hall, then just a few feet later, I find the bathroom without truly looking. Cold ekes from the hard floor, and the air in here is different, bouncing from tile to tile, instead of being absorbed by carpet and furnishings.

Stepping in and closing the door with a silent snick, I feel around for the light switch, finding it after only a moment.

Flipping it on, I squint to combat the sudden, harsh brightness and glaring white walls.

Tiia’s bathroom is hardly bigger than a public stall. The toilet practically touches the tub, and the tub butts up against the vanity. A white curtain hangs over the bath, which means if I pull it back to look inside, it’s a sure bet I’ll find a shower and an uncomfortably small space to maneuver oneself when they want to clean off after a long day.

Though, in Tiia’s defense, I doubt she’s in here washing another man’s blood from her skin.

Spying a small cup on the vanity, and inside it, a pink toothbrush and a three-quarters-empty tube of toothpaste, I take stock of the woman who lives here, seemingly alone. The bra slung over the towel rack, and the hairbrush tossed haphazardly on the counter.

I turn to the toilet and push the front of my shorts down, because the room is so small, I can study a woman’s private space while taking care of business. Saves time and makes me appear less guilty if she wakes up and finds me in here.

I peer down at the small rug scrunched against the base of the tub: sunburnt orange, a little like her eyes, and with a cartoony setting sun sewn into the design, complete with a smiling face.

It says SUNSHINE.

Cute.

As I relieve myself, aiming for the side of the bowl to minimize noise, I twist my upper torso toward the shower. Reaching out with one hand, I drag the plastic curtain aside and find a plethora of shampoo bottles, one in every color of the rainbow. Some with lids on, many with them off. A razor perches precariously on the edge of the tub, and a loofah almost as big as Tiia’s face hangs from the hot water tap.

Bright yellow and fluffy, it kind of ties in to the sunshine theme she has going on in here.

I turn the other way and check the other side of the bathroom, narrowing my eyes when my gaze stops on a drooping baby monstera. Shoots that are supposed to be tall and proud hang limp, and the leaves, supposed to be glossy green, are yellow, and browning on the edges. Truly, they would scream Get me the fuck out of here, if only they could speak.

This is a house of horrors, from the perspective of the flora.

Bringing my focus back to the toilet, I finish up, shake off, and pull my shorts up, then I lower the lid and turn away.

I don’t flush, because that would wake the woman whose very existence bothers me right this moment.

It’s not that fucking hard to keep a monstera alive!

Moving to the sink and flipping the tap on, I pump soap into my hands and quickly wash up, then I step to the suffering plant and stick my finger straight into the soil.

Soaked to the bone, though I know damn well she hasn’t watered it in the last eight or so hours.

“Fucking murder.” I remove my finger and step back, shaking my head as I reach up and bring the pot down from its fateful shelf.

Tipping it over the sink, careful not to dislodge too much soil, I pour the excess water into the crisp white basin and send up my apologies to the plant gods for allowing a woman so inept at keeping a plant alive to buy an innocent monstera and condemn it to a long, painful death.

“What are you doing?”

I jump and spin, sending mud and dirt flying across the counter as I hug the plant to my side and reach for my gun, though I’m not fucking carrying it right now. I lock eyes with the beautiful seductress by the door, her body covered, barely, in a cute little satin slip that reveals pebbled nibbles and… well, pretty much everything else.

Not that I’m upset about that fact. But shit, I’ve never quite understood the desire to buy clothes that don’t actually clothe a person.

“Are you killing my plant while I sleep?” She pushes up to her toes and attempts to look inside the pot. “Micah? You’re hurting it.”

“You’re killing it!” I twist back and continue pouring, because water still laps from the plastic container and leaks along my flesh. “You’re drowning the poor fucking thing, and sleeping just down the hall like a psychopath.”

“It’s not drowning.” She steps into the too-small bathroom and tries to squeeze into the gap between me and the wall. “It was too dry, so I watered it.”

“It’s allowed to be dry. It’s not allowed to be swimming in its own pot.”

“Micah!” She tries again to shove me aside. “Google says it’s a tropical plant! Tropical means humidity. It means moisture.”

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