Page 41 of Kiss-Fist
His head cocks to the side for a second, and he rolls his eyes. ‘Tell me what real estate agency he’s with, and I’ll bill them.’
‘I don’t know if they’ll pay.’
‘I’ll do it anyway.’
I sigh. ‘I don’t want to take up all your time or take advantage?—’
He stops me. ‘We’re thinking about putting in a hot tub. I need the money. I’ll make sure they pay.’
That makes me laugh, but also, that makes me happy because he’ll be my first hot tub friend, and I’m not mad about it. I could use it after a long day of work. ‘I’ll email you.’
He looks thrilled, which eases some of my guilt.
‘So, about Thom?—’
‘You’re fired,’ I tell him.
As usual, he doesn’t take me seriously.
Damn it.
CHAPTER NINE
ROBBIE
The meetingwith the Realtor went much easier than I expected, and to be honest, it’s a bit of a relief to have something in the pipeline. Plus, I had the concept of a plan. Mostly. So I signed the contract, and now it’s nothing more than a waiting game of hoping an offer gets accepted, praying the costs for repairs aren’t going to be through the roof, and that I don’t have buyer’s remorse when it’s all said and done.
So, you know. Easy stuff.
Now, I’m back at home, all alone. Rhett is with Mellie, leaving me to stare at my phone.
I should absolutely not text Thom. I shouldnotproposition him.
He deserves better.
I deserve better.
Actually, no, I’m not sure I do. I haven’t spent my life being the kindest person. I’m kind of a dick on a good day,which is a sharp contrast to Thom’s perpetual sunshine. He deserves someone who can match that. Someone who is kinder. Tender. Easy to love.
That is not me, which isfinebecause all I’m ever going to propose is something physical. There will be no proposals or marriage or anything serious.
I simply want to kiss him, suck his cock, and maybe let him throw me around the room a little.
So when my fingers message him almost exactly that, without my consent, my stomach tries to crawl up through my throat and out of my mouth. I’m a nervous wreck as I wait for his answer.
And of course, he doesn’t respond for ages. He’s doing it to torture me, I swear to god. This waiting game makes me sweat. This is worse than when I had to defend my dissertation.
Fuck, I shouldn’t have messaged. I’m going to chop my fingers off and flush them down the toilet. I’ll be glad they’re gone.
My eyes take them in, and I sigh. Can’t do that now, can I? My ears don’t work, so I have to have fingers to communicate.
Annoying. Really unpleasant, if you ask me.
I head into the kitchen and pull open cabinets, trying to figure out what I can do to keep myself busy until he responds. A large bottle of vodka winks at me.
Drink me, you fingerless bitch.
I pour myself a glass, adding some soda to it to make it go down easier.
