Page 245 of My Sweet Dollie, You Have to Love Me
Annabelle slices through the silence with her quick wit and a question of her own. “Hey, muscles. Wanna help us out today?”
He nods with a friendly smile, dimple popping.
“We don’t need help.”
My words catch Ambrose by surprise. We’d had a good night last night, so it’s a fair reaction.
The unfair reaction is mine as I glare at him with all the hate I’m feeling.
Why are you looking at me like that?he signs, that one arm bent awkwardly as he plasters his other arm to his side.
“I can’t sign. What are you saying?” Annabelle asks.
“He’s wondering why I’m looking at him that way.”
“She woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Tsk.” Annabelle brushes wild hair from my eyes, but the pink color has nothing to do with why I’m seeing red right now. “But she can squash her attitude because this carpet is heavy, and we were thinking of taking it up today, so Dollie doesn’t have to have an anxiety attack whenever she comes up here.”
Are you okay with doing this?he mouths.
“If I weren’t, I’d have objected.”
“And she didn’t. So, what do you say? Are you okay to do this?”
“It’s fine, Annabelle. Shane should be back soon. He can help.”
“Shane doesn’t have arms like Ambrose, Dollie.”
The pink on my cheeks burns me, and my face betrays me when I try to pretend I haven’t noticed Ambrose’s arms. Or his abs. Or that V. Or the very obvious fact that he’s not wearing boxer shorts.
He definitely had sex. And he probably didn’t have to think of me to get it up.
He and Annabelle clear their throats in harmony, and I don’t know where to look first.
Not there.
A smirk lifts his red lips, and I visibly cringe because he definitely saw that.
And his careless amusement causes pain in my chest, and I see a cruel clown standing before me, and I hate him.
Except I don’t. I just hate that he has someone to fill the gap I left behind.
And that’s selfish of me.
Avoiding the disgust on my face, he disappears back down the stairs, before returning with a black and red tool kit, and a hoodie that he’d left in the music room. It’s already on his body when he rounds the corner and sets down the toolbox in front of me.
It looks like something a murderer would use to store his weapons safely. Opening it up, he snaps on a pair of gloves and tosses each of us a pair. This is his way of telling us we can’t touch the filthy carpet without them.
Guiding a nosey Bubbles away first, he ejects a razor-sharp blade from its plastic holder and starts sawing through the carpet. Annabelle copies, using a blade that looks the same. She isn’t as fast as Ambrose, who works with strong arms and nimble fingers.
His tight expression tells me so much.
He’s struggling.
Another blade waits for me, but I can barely move, watching him painted up like a pretty clown, gloves on his hands, a blade between his fingers.
I thought I could do this, but I can’t.
He looks like a better version of a bad memory, and I hate him for it as much as I hate what he’s so obviously done last night.
