Page 8 of Mine to Tease

Damon rolls his eyes. “Well, problem solved.”

I step in front of him as he holds the door open for me. I peek outside without actually stepping onto the iron landing of the stairwell I’m sure is as old as the building itself. I do spot the perfect place for Brinkley below. Set up like a courtyard, there is tons of gravel with pockets of flower beds, shrubbery, and grass. Though the sight of the stairwell gives me anxiety. Both because I’m the slightest bit scared of heights and because I fear my heels will get stuck in the intricate design of the steps.

“Are you sure this is safe?” I ask. I could kick myself for the amount of worry I hear in my own voice.

“Of course it is,” he says. Though just as much as I hate the fear in my voice, I’m surprised by the gentleness in his. It’s then that I take note of how close he is to me or I am to him. I feel the warmth radiating off him as he stands just inches behind me, so close our fingers nearly touch. As the wind kicks up, it brings another whiff of his cologne to my nose. His scent reminds me of our encounter in the stairwell. He was so close his scent flooded me. I felt his breath on my chest and the muscles just beneath his shirt as I grabbed on to him. And the way his hands gripped my hips, it both scared me and… I don’t even know how to process it, honestly. My thoughts give rise to the hairs on my arms and legs, casting a chill across my body. I step away from him then, escaping to the other side of the room.

“Well, that about covers it,” Damon says from behind me. I can hear him close the door and make his way toward me, but I have my attention focused on the balcony. The sunlight streaming in through the French doors warms my skin, chasing away the chill he and the cool breeze left me with. What is it about him? I know I have a short fuse and I’m no stranger to confrontation, especially when it comes to my brother. But there’s something about Damon Dupont that gets underneath my skin in a way I’ve never experienced before, and I’ve only been in his presence a mere half hour. I don’t know what to do with it or how to process it. “I guess I’ll leave you to it then.”

At that, I turn. Just as Damon reaches the exit, I say, “Are we going to have a problem, you and I?”

Damon stands tall. When he turns back to me, he wears a devilish smirk, the kind that lets me know his style isn’t the only thing about him that’s different from the men I’ve known. “Oh, most definitely,” he says.

“Hmm.” I nod, closing the distance between us. “Well, you should know, Mr. Dupont, I always get what I want.”

Damon’s smirk draws into a full smile as he shoves his hands in the pockets of his black jeans. He leans forward, bringing his lips so close to my ear his breath tickles my neck. “Well, we’ll see about that, princess.”

9

Six Weeks Later

It’s been six weeks since moving to New Orleans, seeing my shop for the first time, and meeting that mischievous asshole Damon Dupont. I spent the better part of it trying to figure out the bureaucratic side of owning a business—basically all the paperwork stuff—and searching for a handyman to paint, install my clothing racks and shelves, and build my display tables. I don’t know what’s going on in this city, but every single one I called is booked for the next six months. It’s like someone is working against me, and if I thought he was capable, I’d bet money it’s Mr. Dupont himself. If that isn’t enough to rattle my patience, Damon has done nothing but live up to his promise of being a problem.

Every single day he greets me with some annoying remark. He makes a point of antagonizing Brinkley and then bitches when Brinkley runs down and pisses in his office. He threatened to ban him again, but that’s a battle he just won’t win and he knows it. Normally, I would scold Brinkley for such behavior, but I like seeing Damon pissed off. Serves him right for being such a prick. He checks in on me multiple times a day only to criticize every single choice I make when it comes to my shop. When he saw I’d started painting the space myself, shades of pink to be exact, he said he’d sooner burn this place to the ground than have it painted pink. I told him to go find some matches then and continued my work.

Speaking of… As I finish lugging up the last two gallons of mauve paint I need for the floors, I find Damon standing in my shop with his back against the wall. God, what now? “What do you want, Damon?” I ask, both startled and annoyed by his presence. My back aches from days of carrying paint up the stairs, and my legs and arms have never been more sore. And who has seen me struggling and has refused to help each time? Damon. After day three of sucking up my pride and asking, I just stopped and started meeting his look of amusement with as bitchy of a glare as I could manage. What kind of man sees a lady in need of assistance and chooses to do nothing? Not one worth knowing, that’s for damn sure.

“Well, good morning to you too, princess,” he says, far too chipper for my liking.

“I told you to stop calling me that.” I give him a pointed look as I place the paint next to my pan and roller.

“And I told you I’d call you whatever I damn well please.”

“You know this is harassment, right? Workplace harassment. I could press charges,” I say, turning toward him, crossing my arms over my chest. The crusty paint stains on my oversize T-shirt rub against my forearm, giving me the ick. I’ve been wearing the same Mardi Gras T-shirt for two weeks now after finding I don’t own any paint-appropriate clothing. Speaking of Mardi Gras, that was a nightmare. Apparently, it’s not just one day, it’s weeks and weeks of parades and parties. There were loud, drunk people all over the place. And while the Mardi Gras beads are nice and still ever-present about the French Quarter, this city was not built for that extra traffic. Thank God it’s over and that today is my last day in this tragic T-shirt. This outfit and constantly having my hair in a ponytail is making me lose my mind. The paint fumes don’t help either.

Damon smiles to himself then, nods, and pushes himself off the wall to move toward me. I let out a soft groan and roll my eyes in response. “No fur ball today?” he asks.

“I’m painting the floors,” I say, waving my arms around. “It wouldn’t really be feasible. Not to mention, he’s smelled enough paint fumes over the last two weeks. Last night, he walked into a wall.” It’s then that I remember who I’m talking to, as if I could ever forget. “Why am I even telling you this? You don’t give a shit about Brinkley.”

“You’re right. I don’t,” Damon admits. “But whatever will you do without your emotional support?” His tone mocks me.

“You know what?” I take a step toward him, closing the distance between us. “You should concern yourself with my mental well-being, because I’m this close, Damon,” I say, practically pinching my fingers together. “This close to?—”

“To what?” He raises his brows, towering over me in a way that’s menacing, intimidating, and weirdly disarming.

“Just get the Hell out,” I say, pointing toward the exit.

He nods without a word, allowing some of the tension in my body to ease. That is, until he leans even closer to me and takes several big whiffs. What the? “Yeah, that’s ripe. Might be time for a laundry day.”

“Get out!” I yell. At that, he laughs, finally leaving me be. Though, as I groan, rolling my eyes once more, I can’t help but raise my T-shirt to my nose and find that the asshole is right. “It’s the last day,” I whisper to myself. “Just a little bit longer.”

I make my way over to my paint, use my screwdriver to open the can—my first day was delayed because I had no idea how to open it—and am immediately hit with a wave of fumes that burn the inside of my nostrils. If I never smell paint again it will be too soon. The color is beautiful though. It will add the perfect touch of warmth to help balance out my brighter, pastel pink walls.

I prepare for the task ahead by stretching out my muscles and opening the French doors to let out some of the fumes and allow in the city sounds of pedestrians, car motors, and the distant Jazz musicians, which I find more peaceful than my attempt at silence. Despite it being muffled by the walls separating us, Damon has spent the past several weeks torturing me with his god-awful music. The earplugs I ordered accidentally went to my place in Boston and I haven’t been able to find any here at the local market. At this point, his music is so drilled into me, I know no such thing as true silence anymore. I hear it even as I try to fall asleep and I wake from nightmares set to albums by The Summoning. I Shazammed one of the songs he plays on repeat just so I could send them a hate letter. Yes, I’ve stooped to a new low.

I take a deep breath, pour my paint into the pan, and get one stroke done when I’m met with the all-too-familiar sounds coming from Damon’s parlor. I stop midstroke, place my roller to the side, and contemplate my next move. Calm down, Ana. It’s your last day. Just suck it up, get this done, and then you don’t have to see him for a whole weekend. I try talking myself off the ledge, but as my eye begins to twitch and my ears ring, I know I’ve failed.

I storm downstairs, growing angrier with each step as the music grows louder and Damon grows nearer. I use my fingers to press my ears closed as I reach the bottom of the stairs before hooking a left and making my way to Damon’s office. Thankfully, there’s no one around to witness this madness. His employees don’t get in until after lunch unless someone has a morning tattoo appointment.

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