Page 33 of Little Monster
Dex looks up when the door opens, and it’s almost painful how sexy he is. He’s wearing a fitted white tee, ripped jeans, and sneakers, and half of his thick blond hair is pulled up in a messy topknot. My eyes are drawn to the heavy black ink adorning almost every inch of skin on his arms.
“Hey,” he says, and my gaze darts back to his face. He holds up my car key, and I notice my Honda parked in the driveway behind him. “Brought her back safe and sound.”
“Thank you.” I hold out my palm. He drops the key into it, then slips his hands into the front pockets of his jeans.
We stand there for a second, neither of us saying anything, and I realize he has nowhere to go. There’s no fancy driver idling at the curb, no Jordan in her white Mercedes waiting to pick him up.
“Um, do you wanna come in?” I open the door a little wider and gesture vaguely into the condo. It seems I’m not nearly as confident around him when I don’t have vodka burning through my veins.
Dex glances over my shoulder, then nods. “Yeah, sure.”
Stepping back, I hold the door open and let him in. He takes one look at my condo, with its shiny floors and countertops, and immediately takes off his shoes and leaves them by the door.
Heart pounding, I close and lock the door, then turn to face him. My mind is scrambling, trying desperately to come up with something to say, but Dex isn’t even looking at me.
His attention is on Margot, who’s glaring at him from across the living room, probably deciding if she’s going to hold her ground or dash to my bedroom and hide under the bed until the strange man is gone.
“You must be Margot,” he says, voice gentle.
A burst of joy goes through me when I realize he must know her name from looking at my photos on Tribe. Somehow, I’m surprised he cared enough to read my captions, let alone remember my cat’s name.
Dex approaches her slowly. Squatting down beside the couch, he offers her his hand. She sniffs it for a few seconds, pauses as if deliberating, and then allows him the honor of scratching her chin.
“Wow,” I say, blinking in genuine surprise. “She usually doesn’t like people.”
“Takes after you, then?” Dex shoots me a look over his shoulder, his lips pulling into a smirk.
“Ouch! I didn’t realize you were coming over here to bully me.” The words slip off my tongue easily; I think this is the first time I’ve bantered with him, and it feels almost... normal.
“It’s not an insult,” he says, giving Margot one last scratch under the chin and then standing to his full height, which requires me to look slightly upward. “I don’t like people either.”
I arch a brow, finding it hard to believe that someone so charismatic as Dex Reid could dislike people. “Why?”
“They’re fake. They all want something from you.” There’s a hint of bitterness in his voice, but I don’t know him well enough to dig.
I suddenly recall what he said on the rooftop lounge about wearing his sunglasses so people won’t talk to him. Yet again, I’m reminded that people—especially rock stars—aren’t always what they seem.
“You hungry?” I ask, heading toward the kitchen in hopes of distracting myself from his tatted forearms and this slightly stilted conversation.
“Starving.” He takes a seat on a stool at the kitchen counter, and looking over at him, I almost have to pinch myself.
Dex Reid is in my condo. In my kitchen. Waiting for something to eat.
“What?” he asks, and I tear my eyes quickly away.
“Um, what do you want?” I yank open the refrigerator and stare at the contents, but my brain feels like mush around Dex.
“Anything,” he says.
I spot the dark chocolate pistachio bars I made a couple nights ago and pull out the Tupperware. “You like chocolate?”
He laughs. “Is that a real question?”
Rolling my eyes, I push the refrigerator door closed with my foot, pop the top off the container, and slide it across the counter to him. His eyes go wide as he reaches in and picks one up.
“What is this?”
“Chocolate pistachio bars. You’re not allergic to nuts, are you?”
