Page 29 of Heathen

"Thank you," I tell him.

"I ordered a bunch of stuff, but if you want something else, just let me know," he says, handing me a plate and pointing to the array of food on the small dining table.

"This looks great."

I fill my plate, wondering the entire time if he was being honest yesterday when I questioned if he was calling me fat compared to the beautiful women at the warehouse. Instead of sitting beside him on the sofa, since he's right in the middle of it, I sit at the table and eat with my back to him.

He stays quiet, answering game show questions under his breath. I find it kind of endearing that he gets nearly every one wrong except for the eighties politics column.

After I'm done eating, I risk a glance in his direction, wanting to ask him about the massive dragon tattoo on his back, but I can't bring myself to speak. The thing moves when his muscles bunch and expand.

"Want to go back to the room?"

"Huh?" I ask, snapping my gaze up to see him watching me over his shoulder.

"You look like you're still hungry."

I want to slap his face for the way his teeth rake over his bottom lip. He has no damned business being so damned good-looking.

He's supposed to be a creep, an inconsiderate man who knocks stuff over in grocery stores, not a handsome hero with a perfect smile and muscles for days.

"You should put on more clothes."

"I could say the same for you," he says, once again pointing with the damn fork in his hand.

I look down, noticing for the first time just how much the dress is riding up my thighs.

"I'm getting a shower," I tell him, jumping up from the chair and rushing to the bedroom.

I lock myself inside, pressing my back to the door. The man drives me absolutely crazy, but when I step into the bathroom, I notice the smile on my face.

Ten minutes later, I'm clean and wondering just what's in the hotel shampoo and conditioner because it has left my hair feeling better than my stuff at home does.

With my fingers in my hair, I realize my mistake.

In my effort to get away from him after being caught staring at him, not for the first time I might add, I ran into the bedroom and didn't grab the damn bag of clothes he pointed to earlier.

"Crap," I mutter as I step out of the en suite and look at the door.

The things I need are mere feet away, but I'll be damned if I put that nasty dress back on for a third time just to grab a bag.

I slink toward the door, pressing my ear to it in an effort to decide if he's still on the couch or if I'm lucky and he left the room altogether.

"This country singer played Dusty Wyatt Chandler in the 1992 movie Pure Country."

"Travis Tritt," Ellis says, making my nose scrunch up.

"George Strait, you idiot," I mutter as the game show host moves on to the next question, the contestant actually getting the question right.

As silently as possible, I open the door and crouch low, reaching my hand out to grab the bag, but it isn't there.

"Looking for this?"

I gasp and nearly fall back on my ass when I look up and see Ellis standing there holding the damn bag.

"Do you wake up with a tally count of how many times you need to be an asshole each day?" I mutter as I stand, holding the closure of my towel so I don't lose it.

"Jesus, you're pretty," he says almost absently.

---