Page 33 of Lace 'em Up

I narrow my eyes at him. “Really?”

He grins. “And, let me guess.” Another tap. “Ms. Pricklestein doesn’t believe in organization without the aid of her fluffy servants either?” He smirks. “Or maybe you use your spikes to prompt them into action when they move too slow?”

“Okay,” I mutter. “This is getting ridiculous.”

“What about Spiny Sweetie? Does she organize? Or Barbarella? She has to plan at least something. No? Maybe Your Thorny Highness does?”

I groan.

“No?” he asks. “None of them like to plan ahead either?”

“That is far too much talk of pokey things,” I tell him. “Plus, I have enough deadlines with my design work and the rescue. I don’t need to hold myself to firm targets in my own life.”

“That’s an excellent point,” he says lightly then hops up on the counter, nudging the binder toward me. “But I don’t make deadlines for myself. See?” He taps a finger on the page. “It’s just to keep track of all the moving parts.” A beat, his lips curving. “Like when the dog treat jar gets low.”

Now that’s smart.

I have to give him that much.

His expression is confident bordering on cocky. “I see that my Princess of the Pointiness understands my logic.”

Oy.

This man pushes my buttons like no other.

And yet…I’m enjoying myself.

Dumb. So fucking dumb.

“King,” I say, sighing heavily even as amusement coils in my belly. I turn the binder toward me, start to study what’s on the page—a note for dog treats in the pet section of his grocery list. “I’m going to need you to stop with the prickly references.”

“So, switch over to scientifically proper cactus references then?” His lips twitch. “I’ll call you Queen of the Night. Ooooo.” He wiggles his fingers.

I choke on my laughter—goddamn he’s funny.

And annoying.

And…not what I thought he was.

Which makes me feel even more like a jerk for judging him…and for being the aforementioned prickly.

Something I swear he clocks because he looks far too proud of himself.

I sigh again.

But I’m still biting back laughter.

I ignore the amusement threatening to escape—and his spirit fingers—as I flip through the pages of his binder, clocking a meal plan and grocery list, a cleaning and chore schedule, exercise and training plans (for both himself and Zeus). Contact lists—his local vet and several emergency clinics, his own doctors, a nutritionist and skating coach and physical therapist.

The man is organized, almost to a frightening extent.

And I love that he owns it.

That he’s not embarrassed.

Though, I suppose I should have picked up on those organization skills when I was pilfering his pantry’s contents for Everything cookie ingredients and saw the little clipboard with a pen attached hanging on the wall just inside the door. It held a pad of paper beneath the metal clamp, a scrawled out list of items written on it.

“I’ll give you Queen of the Night,” I mutter instead of letting him know he’s won the conversational battle—at least so far. Then I flip the page and freeze at the sight of a color-coordinated calendar that’s so prettily organized, it makes my graphic designer heart thud with joy.

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