Page 45 of The Relationship Clause

“It’s not a handout. I’ll take the rent out of your paycheck.”

Actually, that doesn’t sound like a bad idea… No. Stay strong. I must stay strong.

“Thanks, but I’ll stay here.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and runs a hand over his face, as if controlling his temper is painful. “You can’t stay here, Miss Cousins. It’s supposed to get below freezing tonight.”

“Well, I’ll bundle up.”

“You’ll bundle up,” he deadpans.

“Yep. I’ve got lots of blankets. Plus a ton of sweatshirts from all those ex-boyfriends.” I wink at him, hoping my little joke will break the tension, but it only seems to make him more upset.

“You will not be wearing any of those sweatshirts.”

Okay… Not the reaction I was expecting. “What? Why not?”

“Because.” The word comes out as a snarl. This is one of his buttons. A new, shiny, strange button that, under normal circumstances, I would totally push over and over and over again, but something about the look in his eyes stops me. It’s not the anger or annoyance. It’s something else.

“Okay… I’ll go stay with Kiera.”

“Kiera has a roommate. There’s no space for you there.”

“I’ll crash on the couch.”

“A couch isn’t good enough for you.” He stomps past me, heading straight for my room, and now I’m the one panicking.

“Where are you going? Hey. Hey, I’m talking to you.” But he doesn’t listen. He walks down my short hallway to my bedroom like freaking Aragorn striding into a room to save Gondor. It is H-O-T hot, and all I’m seeing is the view from behind. I’d probably combust if he was walking like that toward me.

He pushes open the door to my room, pauses for half a second, then continues further inside. I run in behind him, face flaming. “What the heck are you doing?” I say as I snatch up a pair of my unmentionables from the floor.

“I’m packing for you,” he says as he yanks open a backpack I’ve had since college.

“Packing? Does this mean you’ve suddenly decided Kiera’s couch is good enough for me?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he crosses the room to my closet and throws that disaster open. Things fall down all over the place because he didn’t give me a chance to tell him that I have a system with my closet. A system that involves only opening the door this much in order to keep the disaster at bay. He pays the mess no mind though and starts rifling through my closet, pulling things off of hangers and stuffing them into my backpack.

“Stop! What are you—those aren’t even right for winter! And that one doesn’t fit me.”

“If it doesn’t fit you, why do you still own it?”

“Because it might fit me someday.”

He pivots, nearly running me over. “I assume you keep your socks and underwear in your dresser.”

MY WHAT?!

He moves to my top drawer in slow motion. He’s all business. Like a robot on packing steroids. Robots probably wouldn’t short-circuit at having to rifle through a woman’s unmentionables—black, lacy numbers and faded granny-panties alike. But I would. I will short-circuit at having my superhot boss rifle through my unmentionables. They are all equally horrifying, and I need to end this now.

“Stop!” I screech, running into him like a three-hundred-pound lineman. Only, instead of knocking him off course like a three-hundred-pound lineman would, I kind of bounce off of him as he’s opening my drawer. With all the force I can muster, I squeeze in between him and my dresser, shutting the drawer before he sees too much.

“Stop, okay? Stop. You don’t have to do that.”

“Well, you were being unreasonable.”

Ha, yeah, I’m the one being unreasonable here.

“I’ll pack if you leave my room. You don’t have to do it for me.”

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