Page 33 of Tempt Thy Neighbor

Not a word is uttered as we make several trips back and forth from the car to get everything inside.

Still fuming and needing a moment, I retreat to my bedroom, changing into my night clothes—a pair of shorts and a tank top—to try to collect myself.

It pisses me off that he paid for the furniture, and it really chaps my ass that he talked over me and made decisions for me.

I’ve had enough of men talking over and down to me. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, thank you.

When I hear him moving things around in the kitchen, I get irritated all over again because I know he’s probably putting everything in the wrong place.

I yank open my door and stomp out there to find I’m right.

With a huff, I step around him, rearranging everything the right way.

Reading my mood, he grabs a Coke from the fridge and takes a seat at the bar, watching me work.

He sits there for far too long, staring far too hard.

Finally, after several tense minutes, he speaks.

“Fine, I’ll bite. Are you going to tell me what I did wrong?”

I glance up from putting the new silverware in the dishwasher. “You mean besides paying for the couch even though we said we’d split everything and then talking over me and making decisions for me just like my father has always done? Then putting everything up in the wrong places? Does there need to be anything else?”

“No. I guess not.”

“Because that’s what you did, Sutton, and it was embarrassing to be treated like that. I won’t tolerate it.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?Okay?That’s what you have to say to that?”

“Well, yeah. You’re kind of holding a knife right now, and I’m scared if I say much else, you’ll stab me.” His eyes flit to my hand. “You aren’t planning on stabbing me, right?”

I glance down and realize Iampointing a knife at him like a maniac.

Surprised and flustered by my own reaction, I drop the knife.

Next to moving in with Sutton, it’s the dumbest thing I’ve done this week.

There’s a sharp sting as the knife lands blade first against the top of my foot. Blood seeps to the surface instantly.

“Mother! Fuck! Shit!” I bounce on my uninjured foot, the pain setting in.

“Stop moving!” Sutton rushes around the kitchen island. “How bad is it?”

The blood is beginning to run down my foot and onto the floor, but he’s unbothered by it as he crouches down and holds me still to examine the damage.

He snatches a roll of paper towels from the counter and rips off several sheets, wrapping them around me to stop the bleeding.

“What the hell were you thinking,” he growls. “You could have seriously hurt yourself.”

“I don’t know!” I hiss when he applies pressure to the wound. “It’s not like I did it on purpose. I…I was flustered and distracted and pissed off.”

“Where’s the first aid kit?”

“Bathroom, under the sink.”

“Do you want to do this here or there?”

---