Page 25 of His Little Spitfire

I should take her out sometime. Do the very same. What kind of wardrobe does she wear when she gets to pick out her clothes? She’s got the body of a fucking model, I’m sure anything she puts on must look good.

If we go out in public, anyone who looks our way will know something is wrong. Beautiful women like her aren’t found with scarred up men like me. They’ll call the cops and try to take her away from me.

“Are you going to stand there staring at me, or come sit?” She doesn’t bother looking my way, jerking her chin toward the empty seat across from her.

“You’re alone.” I feel stupid pointing it out, but I feel like with all this space I’ve given her, she’d be far up her sister’s ass. That, or my mother would try to steal her away.

She shrugs, eating a bite of her food. She’s got a bowl of fruit at her side, and her attention is on a book. Looks like another one of the ones I found her with in the library.

“Not like I’ve got friends here. Until Camellia gets out of this honeymoon phase of hers, I might as well get used to it.”

Honeymoon.

Without a wedding, are we expected to go on one? Does she want to go somewhere for a week, no distractions or disruptions?

One little thought is all it takes to push me right back into dog mode. Back to wanting to please her. What in the hell is happening to me?

Grunting in agreement, I move across from her and sit. I’ve got chicken on my plate and some vegetables. Nothing too appetizing. Not more than the woman across from me.

Fuck.

“You stink,” she murmurs before sinking her teeth into another sliced fruit. Its juices coat her lips, and my eyes linger.

“I was working.”

Or, rather, I hid down below until the stale air sunk into the weaves of fabric of my clothes. I haven’t let a single drop of blood get on my skin.

Beneath the table, my knee bounces as her nose crinkles. “Better get used to it. It’s normal.”

“It’s making me lose my appetite.” To prove herself, she doesn’t bother taking another bite. Rather, she lets her fork hit her bowl, and she glares at her book.

What in the hell is her problem now? I hoped both of us would appreciate the space I provided.

Instead of asking her what is wrong, I shove a bite of chicken into my mouth. God knows the last thing I want to talk about is feelings. If I start asking about hers, then that’s going to force me to talk about mine.

That’s the last thing I want to do.

Hell, I’d be better off just eating elsewhere. Though, not even that would be enough to bring a smile to her face. No, Eliza is impossible to please.

Last night was a fluke, that’s all. Having her pressed to my chest and getting the best sleep a man can get, all by chance. It’s something that won’t happen twice, I’m sure of it.

She flips a page to her book, sighing softly under her breath. I chew harder.

Her eyes flick up, meet mine for all but a second before flickering back.

I can’t tell if the crunch against my teeth is a piece of cartilage in the chicken, or my teeth cracking. Once more, this woman is testing my patience.

“Say what’s on your mind.” The words come out harsh, an order with a mix of frustration and demand behind it.

Finally, she snaps her book shut.

“You stink,” she repeats. Instead of coming out like an insult, there’s some hesitance. She’s chewing on her damn lip and showing me something I’ve never seen before.Nerves.

Who is this woman and what has she done with my bull-headed wife?

“I do,” I agree slowly, trying to understand where she’s going with this.

She taps her fingers against the cover of the book, her eyes finally meeting mine. “You should shower.”

---