Page 82 of Your Coffin or Mine
The petite chef is still wearing her uniform, but her hat is missing, her dark hair coiled atop her head. Her eyes blaze with fury. “Of course your opinion matters, Doyle. Just not to me.”
I frown at the rejoinder. It’s odd to find a woman who isn’t instantly smitten with Doyle, and even stranger still that he, for whatever reason, despises her. He usually loves women, and they, in turn, adore him.
“I do not like you,” he grumbles out.
She scoffs. “If you don’t like me, congratulations, I don’t give a fuck,Doyle. What I do have fucks to give about is howIwant to domyjob. How about you go do yours and worry less about what I am doing unless you have any complaints about the food?”
“The cupcakes?—”
Her hand rises in the air to stop him. “Other than the cupcakes I haven’t even made yet. You know what, Doyle? Since you all told me to take control of the catering team, I will bake what I like, and if you don’t like it,don’teat it!”
Whitley storms off, leaving Doyle fuming like an untried lad. Is he really about to chase after her? I use my telekinesis to pick up the cast-iron fire poker hidden beneath the cobwebs and send it crashing against the back of Doyle’s thick skull.
He swivels around, furious as intended.
“What in the fuck are you doing?” I growl.
“What the fuck did you just hit me with?” he says, wincing as his eyes turn back to their natural brown. He rubs the back of his head.
“A fire poker. You and your new girlfriend are ruining my night, not to mention your obvious inability to keep your baser self in check,” I say, noticing the way his skin ripples under his suit jacket.
This only happens when Doyle is extremely on edge, which is very rare. Since the first year of him being turned, he has never once lost control of himself, which is unheard of for any supernatural being. I expect no less of him—not with everything he has been through.
“She isnotmy girlfriend,” he says, his tone offended.
“I have never once seen you be so unpleasant to a lady.”
His hands ball into fists where he stands and his nostrils flare wide. “She is not a lady! She is Satan in female form sent to drag me off to my own personal hell. She refuses to listen to reason, and it’s uncanny how unaffected she is by me telling her no. What possesses a woman to step into my domain and tell me how to run my household? She’s always on about how I need to— What are you doing?”
I smirk as my fingers fly across the screen of my phone. “Sending the chef a list of your favorite things in life. She sent me her number.”
“Fuck you, Vlad,” he snarls, lunging at me.
I slap my palm against his suit-covered chest, and I can feel the wall of power behind his form. The man has the strength of Goliath, trapped in an eerily human body.
“You are literally vibrating, Doyle, and we have more guests coming in twenty-four hours.”
He blinks, then visibly shudders in an attempt to suppress his anger.
My irritation, however, is still simmering. “Aubrey is in my room, naked, and what the fuck am I doing, Doyle? Where am I? Babysitting a werewolf who needs coddling for the first time in his three centuries of life? I think not.”
“If you ever hit me with a fire poker again, I will eat you.”
“Keep your shit together and I won’t have to.”
The soft sound of footsteps clipping down the hall has his whole body tensing once more.Strange.
“When will the movers arrive?” Whitley asks, reappearing with her features contorted in irritation.
What is it with these people and movers?
“Why? What is it you need, chef?” I askpolitely.
I grin at the unadulterated annoyance written across Doyle’s face. At least some fun will come of this.
“George mentioned the movers coming late tonight, and I wondered if they wouldn’t mind moving some things I need for the morning. It’ll make much more sense to move them tonight without guests everywhere so the caterers can get through.”
“Oh.” An idea forms, and I grin wickedly, showing my teeth. “I’m sure Doyle has nothing pressing to do at the moment. He can help you.”
