Page 14 of Hot for the Jerk

“Why are you …” I started, prompting him to lift his gaze to me, along with his eyebrows.

“Why am I …?”

I wasn’t actually sure what I was going to say.Those were just the first words that came out of my mouth, apparently bypassing my brain entirely because I didn’t remember thinking about them.

Why are you … so annoying?Why are you … so tall?Why are you … so fucking sexy, but at the same time, the bane of my fucking existence?

He tilted his head to the side, waiting for me to answer.

“Why are you …” I started again, searching the drunken sea of my brain for something to say that wouldn’t just be fuel for his insults.“Why are you on the bed?”I finally spat out, instantly regretting my decision to say anything, let alonethosespecific words.

A slow, menacing smile spread across his mouth.“Because it’s more comfortable than the floor.”

“You’renotsleeping in this bed with me.”

He glanced at the plethora of pillows carefully displayed on the cushion near the drafty bay window.“You’re a hell of a lot shorter than me, Elsa.You can take the window seat.”

White hot anger roared to life inside of me.“Your mama sure didn’t raise you right, did she?”

The amused expression on his face dropped like a stone in a pond and a chilly wind of worry whipped through me.“I’ll warn you to never speak of my mother again,” he said, his angry voice like a knife, sharp and serrated, yet also so calm and almost a whisper.I couldn’t stop the icy shiver that ran down the valley of my spine.Or the way my nipples pebbled beneath my flannel pajamas.

I swallowed and tipped my chin up a little, but didn’t say anything.Our gazes remained locked for an uncountable number of heartbeats.I refused to be the first one to look away, but goddamn it, I was.“I’m sorry,” I finally murmured.

He took a sip of his beer, which seemed to finish it, then unfolded himself off the bed and stalked his enormous frame back to the fridge, where he crouched down.“What wine do you recommend?”

Even though he offered me one of his beers—and I took two—I hadn’t offered him any of my wine.However, I wasn’t sure if I had it in me to continue to be argumentative and say anything either.

“Grab the rosé,” I said, pivoting on the bed to face the closet where he was.

He nodded and stood up again, the cords of his forearms protruding, and his biceps bunching when he unscrewed the cap.Then he brought the bottle to his mouth and took a sip, nodding in approval as his throat moved on a long swallow.“It’s good.”

My eyes were laser focused on the slow, steady bob of his Adam’s apple, until he tilted his head down again and his beard blocked it.“So is your beer.”

He sat back down on the bed against the headboard, but didn’t pick up his book.I swallowed and stared at the duvet cover like it was a freaking Picasso, because if I didn’t, I’d inevitably stare at his feet again.Or his face.Or his arms and the way they seemed to be actively trying to rip their way out of his shirt.

“Can I ask you something?”he said, after another long silence flickered between us like a live wire.

I took a long sip of my beer and raised an eyebrow.

“Why’d you leave?”An earnest, almost vulnerable look settled in his eyes.Gone was the joking jerk.The enemy with an affinity for pushing my buttons.

I also knew exactly what he was referring to.It was the secret we’d successfully kept from our families for nearly five years.

The way he blinked behind those glasses and settled his lips into a thin line unnerved me.It made him seem less threatening.Less annoying, and a lot more boyish.A lot more … tolerable.Perhaps even slightly vulnerable.

This all had to be a ploy though.A trick to get me to let down my guard.

I scoffed.“Are you honestly, after all these years, still dwelling on the rejection?”Rolling my eyes, I put the beer bottle to my lips and sipped, glancing away because it was a hell of a lot easier than looking at him.Then, because I wasn’t ready to answer him, I chugged the beer until it was done.

“Easy,” he murmured as I got up, went to the fridge and pulled out another bottle of wine, this time a Reisling.

I shot him a look as I unscrewed the cap and took a long sip.I couldn’t chug wine the way I could beer, but I drank as much as I could—liquid courage, or whatever—and kept my gaze as far away from his as possible.

His exhale of impatience pulled hard at my insecurities more than it did at my frustration.Even his tone was more sad, more confused, than it was upset.“Look, I can deal with the rejection.I’m a grown-ass man.An adult.What I want to know is what happened between the two weeks we spent getting to know each other online, chatting all day, every day, to when we finally agreed to meet?You took one look at me and bolted.”

I still couldn’t look at him, because if I did, I’d tell him the truth.All of it.Every traumatic, nightmarish detail.“You didn’t look like your pictures,” I said flippantly, choosing to be a bitch rather than real with him.We didn’t both need to be vulnerable here.It wasn’t a requirement.

His laugh was humorless and bitter.“Bullshit.I actually lookexactlylike my pictures.There was absolutely no catfishing going on and you know it.Try again.”

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