Page 58 of Coco and the Misfits

“Why not?”

“I feel bad. I spent the afternoon dusting spotless counters and tables. And petting the pretty plants on the terrace.”

Suddenly the exhaustion of this long day crashes on top of me. I grab a stool and perch on it. Fuck. I don’t want her to go. I don’t want to stop coming home to her. What’s wrong with me?

“Ace? Are you all right?”

“Just tired,” I blurt out and curse myself for being candid.

“What happened?” The little crease between her brows is yet another blow, because it sends such a flare of warmth through me, I know going back to the cold will be damn hard. “Are you all right? Are you sick?”

“I’m fine. Long day at work.” I rest my fists on top of the island. “How about you come late. Clean whatever needs cleaning. And cook for me?” Doubt hits me. “Can you cook?”

“Oh yes!” She brightens. “And bake, too.”

“Excellent.” Relief fills me. I’ve found a solution. “Then your position will be less that of a cleaner and more that of a chef-in-residence.”

“Chef-in-residence.” She snickers, and it’s like a cat hacking a hairball, but at the same time, it’s oddly… enchanting?

No. Red alert. Eject. Danger.

I gaze at her, she grins at me, and that’s it. My heart is in ruins and her name is written all over them in pink glitter.

‘Property of Coco.’

Fuck me…

21

COCO

What a strange day.

Cleaning the luxury apartment of the alpha owner of my favorite bar, my hero who saved me from my two kidnappers, only to have him open the door and enter… and now he’s sitting at the kitchen island and making conversation like that’s the most natural thing in the world.

Meanwhile, I’m frozen to the spot, and at the same time melting inside because the way he’s looking at me…

He’s looking at me as if he wants to fuck me, then roll me in sprinkles and lick me, then eat me up.

He’s the big bad wolf with that silver beard and hair, those pale green eyes, those hulking shoulders. He looks about to burst out of his suit and transform into a beast, and I want it. I want him so much I’m breathless with it.

But he doesn’t. Fuck me, that is. Doesn’t get up, doesn’t come any closer.

“You’re tired,” I say, testing that distance. “I should let you rest.”

This is my insecurity-born come-on line. The chance for him to ask me to stay, or at the very least, to get up and take me in those muscular arms and kiss me.

I want his kiss. Stolen or given, offered. I’d offer it to him. I’d offer him my body, because I need… I need the intimacy, the touch, the contact. I need him, yet I don’t want to beg.

I don’t want to ask and be rejected, find out the attraction is one-sided.

He still doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t ask me to stay. Turning away to hide my face and the disappointment surely written all over it, I put away the cleaning supplies and grab my purse.

“Be careful out there,” he says.

“Don’t worry,” I reply. “Zach is teaching me self-defense. I’ll be fine.”

That gets a reaction. His brows go up. “He does?”

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