Page 33 of Pucking Obsessed

It’s enough for me to cling to the hope that I’m worth more than that to him.

It’s like he sees me as a real boyfriend who is equivalent to his girlfriend.

Well, not quite.

Because how could he love me as much as the woman who he’s waited nine years to get together with?

My nose wrinkles at the rich, meaty scent of spaghetti Bolognese, which Eden is cooking downstairs.

It’s D’Angelo’s favorite meal.

When I first arrived back at Captain’s Hall, and I explained to Eden what had happened in the meeting with wild gestures and cussing, Eden quietly offered to cook the meal.

He also offered to burn down Heine’s mansion.

Or simply, to burn Heine.

Eden shows that he cares in simple ways like that.

I vetoed the arson and told Eden that the meal would be enough to cheer up D’Angelo.

It’s hot in the bathroom. The steam has misted the mirrored back wall.

Sweat drips down my neck, making my scarlet t-shirt cling to me.

This is a missed opportunity to have slipped out of my jeans and t-shirt and returned to Naked Weekends.

I will when D’Angelo returns. At the moment, he appears to be having a panic attack.

I turn my back on Robyn again, trying not to laugh as I hold up my phone.

I lean against the corner wall. “It’s simple. Just don’t buy her panty liners. You’ve had harder missions. You’ve got this.”

“Panty liners? What the hell are they?” D’Angelo sounds baffled and moments from snapping. “Fuck, this isn’t even…it’s adult diapers.”

My smile widens. “Adult diapers, darlin’?”

“I panicked and grabbed the first thing on the shelf.”

How many years has it been since D’Angelo has shopped in a drugstore for himself? In Freedom’s drugstore?

I’d love to take him back to my home in England and have him live my old life for a week.

In Guildford, D’Angelo would look like he’d landed in another world.

“You sound more stressed than you did in the meeting,” I point out.

He huffs. “The meeting was bullshit. Plus, it was simple. A bunch of assholes trying to destroy me. On the other hand, this is about making the wrong choice for my principessa, when I promised that I’d buy…what the hell is all this…?”

I can hear rustling like D’Angelo is picking up whole armfuls of products and dumping them into his basket.

I’d give anything to see that.

“Sanitary pads, tampons, and menstrual cups…?” I offer.

“Did you know that they make more options than they do types of condoms?” D’Angelo replies, grumpily. “How am I supposed to know what’s the right one?”

“D’Angelo and the quest for the Holy Tampon.” I laugh.

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