Page 2 of One Bad Idea
I gave him a stiff smile. "That's an awful big word for a guy with no shirt."
He looked down and frowned, as if noticing his bare chest for the very first time.
Well, that made one of us.
In happier news, my comment had obviously found its mark, because the guy was still frowning. In spite of everything, I almost smiled.Take that, Hoodie Man.
He looked up and muttered, "Shit."
"What? You didn't realize you were shirtless?"
"No, I didn't realize you'd be such a pain in the ass. And where the hell is my pizza?"
What?I squinted up at him.Pizza? Was he on drugs or something?Anything was possible, given his semi-scruffy appearance. And that wasn't the only thing that made me pause.
The guy wasn't much older than I was, which put him somewhere in his late twenties.Wasn't he a little young to look so jaded?Plus, he'd been rude from the get-go.
In reply to his question, I said, "I don't know. Where the hell are your manners?"
His jaw tightened. "Manners are for pussies."
Well, that was nice.
"And," he continued, "you knocked onmydoor, not the other way around."
"For the last freaking time," I said, "I didn't knock. I rang the bell." Not that it really mattered, but the guy was getting seriously under my skin.
He looked past me, searching the street for who-knows-what. Finally, his gaze landed on the vehicle that had carried me here – an ancient pickup that guzzled gas like Uncle Joe guzzled beer at ball games.
Still looking at the truck, the stranger said, "No wonder you're cranked. You won't make dick drivingthatthing."
I didn't bother looking. That "thing" wasn't even mine. I wasn't even supposed to be driving it. But that was a problem for another time, probablyafterI was arrested for grand theft auto, assuming that Stuart – my jerk of an ex-boyfriend – made good on his threat.
In front of me, the stranger was saying, "So, where is it? In the truck?"
I gave a confused shake of my head. "Where's what?"
"My pizza, just like I said."
I felt my gaze narrow. He was messing with me. I was almost sure of it. "Oh, please," I said, "like a normal delivery person would knock on the door –withoutpizza, mind you – and demand to see her best friend."
From the open doorway, he flashed me a sudden grin. "I thought you rang the bell."
That grin – so damned cocky – sent a bolt of heat straight to my core. Worse, from the look in his eyes, he darn well knew it.
I was so distracted by his smile that it took me a moment to realize that he'd just made fun of me. "Hey!" I said. "I was speaking metaphorically."
"About what?"
As if he didn't know."About knocking on the door."
He shrugged. "So was I."
I opened my mouth, intending to say something sharp and cutting. The only problem was, nothing came to mind. In truth, the guy had a point, and really, did it matter whether I'd knocked or rang the bell?
No. It didn't.
And I was wasting precious time.
