Page 65 of Scrooged for the Holidays
He has to know that, right?
“Idiot,” I chide him as if he can hear me. I don’t understand why he couldn’t do what I asked of him.
That’s a lie. I know why. It’s because of fucking Christmas. He didn’t want to evict someone out of the kindness of his heart. Apparently, I’m the only one who can keep a level head during the holiday season. I should have done it myself, but I thought he would listen to the person in charge. Like I said,idiot.
I click over to open my email, fully prepared to prep another message to Mr. Cross. This one will be to let him know about Tim and his fuck up, but when I click to create a new message, my entire phone goes dark.
What the hell?
I press the power button, but nothing happens. I press it again, and when that doesn’t work, I plug it back into the charger. The screen remains dark.
“Ugh! What is it with this town?” I swear it’s like it hates technology and interaction with the outside world or something.
I haphazardly put my phone on the side table as a loud set of knocks fill the air, scaring the ever-loving shit out of me. I jump and place my hand over my chest.
“Greer, are you in there?”
The voice isn’t deep nor accented, clueing me in to who’s knocking. I exhale before taking in another breath, calming my heart.
“Greer?”
“Geez.” I walk toward the door, pulling it open. “Impatient much?”
Kai props himself on the doorframe, his long hair perfectly styled and a cheeky half grin on his face. His gaze unabashedly drops down my body as he visibly checks me out.
“Royal blue is definitely your color, Princess.”
The nickname does two things simultaneously. It ignites my annoyance because, like I’ve told him, I’m not a princess. Secondly, it reminds me of his appearance in my dreams.
I glance down at his outfit. He’s wearing the same top as before, but I think he’s wearing a new set of pants. I wonder if he had to wash his, too.
The corner of my mouth lifts up. “And you like to look like a model, Angel Boy.” The nickname is out of my mouth before I can think about it. I called him that several times last night, but never in reality. I blame it on the fact that I was just thinking about angels and his tattoo.
The air between us tightens like a bowstring, and he takes a step closer so he towers over me and there’s only half a foot between us. I swear, there must be something in the water here to make him and his boyfriends this tall and this hot.
I blink up at him, his brown eyes pools of warm chocolate. Those eyes watched as I got off on Remi’s thigh not long ago, and I’m not mad about it.
He tilts his head, dipping it down so we’re close enough I think we’re going to kiss. I’d say again, but we haven’t kissed in reality.Right?
“Angel Boy?” he questions.
For a brief millisecond, I debate telling him he was in my dreams last night, but I don’t want to talk about it. If I bring it up, he’d ask me what I dreamt about, and I’m not diving into memories and emotions with a man I hardly know. Physical, I can do. Emotional—not so much.
“Your tattoo,” I say. That makes more sense, anyway. Even if that nightmare was real—which it wasn’t—Nephilim aren’t real. Angels aren’t real. But the tattoo I saw last night was.
“Ah, yes,” he says. The pretty spark in his eyes dims before he blinks and it’s back. Was he disappointed that was my reason?
“Why else would I call you Angel Boy?”
He puts his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know. My first guess would have been because of my angelic good looks and sweet personality.”
The cocky and assured way he says it makes me smile. “Sweet?”
A strand of his long hair falls from behind his ear, and I have the strong desire to sweep it back. “I was a good boy for you today, was I not?”
The familiar pull I’ve felt in my stomach since I arrived here grows, and I want to throw myself into his arms and eat him up. I was hungry when I woke up from my nap, but now I’m very, very hungry.
“I’m not so sure being a good boy equates to being sweet,” I say.
