Page 25 of The Pucking Grump

“Like what?”

“Flowers, presents, maybe take her out on a date. Talk about wanting to treat her with respect. Girls dig that kind of shit.”

This is exactly why I shouldn’t have chosen to take advice about women from a bachelor. “Yeah, thanks for nothing, Casanova.”

I’m moments from hanging up when he adds, “Trust me. You don’t even need to tell her what you’re really feeling. Just cook up some stuff about how you’d like to do what she wants, but you don’t want to take advantage of her. Say the bare minimum. That’ll get you back in her good graces.”

Bare minimum.

Not the worst idea.

“Thanks,” I mutter. Ken’s suggestions won’t necessarily work, but I can take the parts that hold the potential of making a change and use them.

One hour later, I’m back in the house and slightly sweaty from cooking in front of the stove. I’ve made spaghetti and meatballs, my comfort food. I set the table in the kitchen, grimacing slightly. Making my favorite dish for Faye isn’t exactly my idea of a relaxing evening, but maybe Ken is right and this will be worth it when all is said and done.

Once dinner is ready, I knock on the bedroom door. I half expect her not to answer—I have heard nothing but dead silence from that direction since I came back inside—but she surprises me and opens the door. Relief breaks over me as I note she’s wearing a T-shirt and a pair of pajamas I picked out for her.

“Are you hungry?”

Ken did say I should apologize, but this is about all I can manage for now. My entire being recoils at the thought of saying that I’m sorry, especially after the stunt she pulled.

She looks up at me with drawn, muted eyes. “Yes.” Pushing past me, she heads to the kitchen. I follow, almost surprised. I expected she would put up more of a fight, maybe even demand an apology.

Her lack of resistance makes me feel even more like an asshole.

She’s sitting at the table when I make my way over. I settle on the seat opposite hers. Awkward silence lingers between us, but Faye doesn’t even seem to notice. She takes a fork, swirls it around on the plate so it picks up some spaghetti, and brings it to her mouth.

“This tastes nice.”

Guilt burns within me. It would be easier if she was giving me an attitude or being a brat like she was back at the lake. She sounds like what I did made her lose every bit of fight left in her. And maybe I should put aside my ego and address that.

“Look . . .”

“We should . . .”

We speak at the same time. The awkward tension multiplies.

“You can go first,” I say to her.

She swallows and drops her fork. “We should talk about my departure.”

I raise a brow, more surprised by my gut clenching reaction to the news than the actual news itself. “Come again?”

Leaning back in her chair, she folds her arms. “You clearly want me to leave. The plan was for me to stay for a couple of days, and it has been a couple of days now.” She sighs, her shoulders sagging so she looks like a broken, vulnerable bird. “But I’ve got no idea what to do. And I don’t know if I’m close to figuring it out or not. So . . .”

“I don’t want you to go.” I’ve never admitted anything quite so fast in my entire life. Hell, even Faye’s eyes widen. But it’s the truth. She drives me up the wall daily and makes my existence a living hell, particularly at nighttime, but damn it, I like having her around.

And I don’t even know why.

“You act like you do.”

I run my hand through my hair, familiar frustration building up. Why the hell does she always have to push? “You were half naked, and I asked you to put some clothes on. You were playing with my restraint, and I snapped.”

I’m brushing over a lot of key events there, but I’m counting on her being too embarrassed about what happened to fight me on it. Sure as anything, she merely swallows and says, “You’ve told me you don’t like me several times.”

“Yeah, but . . .”

“You can’t stand me.”

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