Page 7 of Matched

Her rejection doesn’t faze me. I’ve got an entire year to win her over. Really, it’s only a matter of time before she’s unable to resist her bad-ass, love-machine hubby. For now though, I need a shower, shave, and toothbrush.

I whistle while I walk down the short hall to the bathroom, which is so small I can barely manage a full about-face. The bathtub is white, the wall is orange, and there’s some abstract painting that looks suspiciously like a Georgia O’Keeffe hanging on the wall. The towels are soft and plush, emanating the scent of fabric softener. And I’m standing in the bathroom, still hard, thinking of using one of these towels to wipe droplets of water from every one of Inara’s luscious curves. Not helpful when one of my main objectives is not pissing on the ceiling.

But standing so close to her in the kitchen, inhaling the scent of her—that same perfume that’s lingering in the house and a blessedly fruity shampoo—while her face changed color, touching that silky skin, and no more can I claim the boner as morning wood. Part of me longed to keep baiting her until we ended up rolling around the countertop.

I groan at that image. So not helpful.

Instead of thinking more about her, I consider my options. Inara’s going to be a tougher nut to crack than the usual airheads I go for. She doesn’t fall for my lines, doesn’t think my jokes are cute. And the way she looked at me—like I’m nothing but an annoyance—after our interlude in the kitchen, lessens my odds to somewhere around one in fifty of scoring anytime soon.

My fingers grip the ceramic of the sink as I take in more of my surroundings, hoping to uncover something that will help me figure out the quickest way to loosen Inara up. There are drawers in the vanity, a stack of shelves with accoutrements and baskets of hair essentials, and a cabinet. Because I’ve never really investigated a woman’s bathroom before, I take a peek in the cabinet hanging over the toilet.

Jesus Christ.

How many tubes of mascara does one woman need? And why does she have four boxes of Band-Aids? I rub my hand over my head and groan when my gaze falls on the colorful box of tampons. This is so pointless. No, I’m not scared of tampons. I grew up with four sisters, so I know all about periods. Hell, they used to send me into the drugstore to buy them. And my sisters love me. But Inara. Forget love—she doesn’t even like me. The woman is uncomfortable anytime I’m within a twenty-foot radius. Which is what led me to this pathetic situation of searching for clues among her feminine products on how to get her to relax.

I huff and slam the cabinet door shut. At least now my boner is deflated, and I can finally piss without becoming a water-wiggle. I would happily tackle shaving as well, except stupid me left my razor kit in one of the boxes still in the entryway. Along with my toothbrush. Fortunately, Inara left one in here. A quick rifle through the vanity drawer produces toothpaste and I’m a teeth-cleaning machine.

When I reappear after a quick shower, clad in a towel knotted at my waist because my clothes are also still in the boxes, she slips in the bathroom and shuts the door, keeping her gaze studiously off my naked chest. Spoilsport.

I’m elbow deep in one of the boxes when the door flings open. She walks toward me with murder in her eyes and the toothbrush she’d left for me in her fist like a weapon. “Did you use my toothbrush?”

“Your toothbrush?” Oops. Swapping spit while making out is one thing but her toothbrush? That crosses a line I can’t uncross. “I didn’t know.”

“So, you just find a toothbrush in someone else’s bathroom and shove it into that germ factory you call a mouth?” She’s indignant and rightfully so, but also a little over the top. It’s not like I used the damn thing to clean the toilet. Although I don’t mention it because I’m not giving her the ammunition to compare my mouth to that.

Also, damn. Why does she have to look so hot when she’s pissed off, with those flushed-pink cheeks and blazing eyes? I’d like to make her eyes blaze for an entirely different reason.

I pull my mind out of the gutter and shrug. I’ve already been shot down once in the past half hour. No need to sign up for round two quite so soon. Also, now my own face goes hot as my mistake sinks in, but I’m not about to let her figure out I’m embarrassed. “Figured you left a toothbrush for me, like a good wife.” The idea gathers momentum and races out of my mouth like it was built by a NASCAR pit crew. This is at least partly her fault. She should’ve known I wouldn’t have unpacked. And I would happily continue that line of thinking, but she’s advancing like a tiger stalking her prey. I back up and the tall stack of boxes topples behind me, knocking over a book of word searches that skitters toward her feet.

Her glare is hot enough to make a heat-seeking missile find a new target as she kicks the book off to the side. “Like a good wife? Did you really just say like a good wife?” Her voice is high-pitched enough to shatter windows.

I put a finger in my ear and give it a good wiggle for show. I’ve seen the rocket’s red glare and the bombs bursting in air up close and personal. But something about this little spitfire is more intimidating, and yet I will not be deterred. “I just came back from deployment and was in a rush to pack up. Thought maybe you made sure I’d have the basic necessities, like a toothbrush.” I puff out my chest and cross my arms and stare at her, a look that has melted men twice her size to their knees in fear.

Not Inara. If she’d been red a while ago, she was positively maroon now. And she isn’t quite done with her rant. “And it never occurred to you to bring your own damned toothbrush? You arrogant, disgusting pig.”

Her spunk is adorable and I can’t hide my grin. I have an urge to keep pushing her buttons even when it means I might become the first-ever toothbrush homicide. I step forward with my arms open to embrace her and she jabs me with the business end of the toothbrush. Rubbing my chest, I quirk an eyebrow at her. “I’m trying to end the fight here. A little cooperation on your part would go a long way.”

I’m not prepared for the strength behind the shove she gives me. Had I been, I wouldn’t be on my ass right now, with my towel gaping open and a diminutive woman who must be no taller than five feet peering at us through the storm door. My hands fly to cover my exposed dick before the woman lays eyes on my goods. “Uh... hi there.”

“I heard yelling,” the woman says as she enters the home.

Inara shake her head. “It was nothing, Mami. Just a discussion.”

“Sounded like something. Anyway, I just stopped by to drop off some flan.” She lifts a glass baking dish in one hand.

Mami. Ah, shit. I rub my hand over my scalp and suck in a deep breath. “Not the way I intended to meet my new mother-in-law. Please forgive me.”

Inara goes rigid, her nostrils flaring. Before I figure out what I did wrong now, she chucks one of my boxes at me, and the edge of the thing catches me right in the dick. I growl when it hits. Okay, holler is more like it. I scream like a baby. Pain explodes in my groin and black spots flash in front of my eyes. I try to curl into the fetal position, but I can’t because there’s a fucking box on me. Plus, I can’t breathe. Or think. Or do more than lie there and gasp like I’ve run a marathon while my dick throbs in agony. Then, after she grabs her purse off the small console table, she stalks past me and steps around her mother, heading out the door.

“Mija, where are you going? You need to explain yourself.”

“To the drugstore. I need to buy a new toothbrush. And yeah, I got married.” Her words come to an end just as a car door slams, the engine revving a couple of seconds later. Tires rub against concrete before screeching to a halt. “Don’t interrogate my new husband either. Or bother guilt-tripping me later. It’s not like you ever informed me any of the five times you got married.”

The tires squeal as she peels out of the driveway. I swallow hard. What the hell kind of family did I marry into? Five times?

I shrug at her mother, who has a renewed interest in my predicament. Before I can say a word, Inara’s mom steps around me and heads into the kitchen, her black hair streaked with gray in a braid that hangs over one shoulder. After she sets the flan on the kitchen counter she returns, snorting in a way that reminds me of her daughter. “Well, it’s nice to meet you...”

“Tony.” I still sound like a kid whose voice hasn’t changed yet, but the sense I might die is subsiding. Incrementally.

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