Page 52 of Howl You Doin?
I take in his usual butler attire, his trimmed beard, and his hair still damp from a shower. He doesn’t even look remotely hungover like I would have, and I find that extremely rude. I want him to have eye bags to his knees and look like the walking dead.
I eye the box in his hands, wondering what he’s playing at with this routine. New shoes? It’s like he’s not even the same person. Better yet, how or when did he organize them so fast?
I take the box without thought when he all but shoves it into my hands. “I don’t want them if this is going to be deducted from my pay.” I thumb the edge of the box and notice the quality in the cardboard alone. “These look expensive.”
I can’t even understand the language of the brandembossedon the top, but it looks fancy. Like nose up, pinkie out, lips puckered until they look like a butthole, hoity-toity fancy.
“No. This is just a gift.”
He smiles like all is right with the world when all I can think is: Where’s the joke, or the punchline that makes me feel like an idiot? I can never tell with him because he’s so hot and cold with me.
“Are you serious?” I ask incredulously.
His face turns thunderous. “Why do you always ask if I’m being serious?”
“I don’t know,” I say, unable to keep the confusion and distress from my tone. “Maybe it’s because we were enemies just a couple weeks ago, and now we’re cuddling? You’re gifting me shoes, Connor. Don’t you see?”
“I’d say enemies is a bit far-fetched. It’s not like we were wielding swords on a battlefield.” He says it with a grumble like I’m being silly! “And you needed new shoes.”
His cute brow furrows, and he pouts like he’s a puppy I’ve kicked, which doesn’t help the issue.
I want to quiet-scream, but instead I spin on my heels and head back to the kitchen, needing away from him and how he confuses me. At least there I can find something else to focus on and ignore him.
“Whitley, wait,” he says, following me into my safe space, and he grabs my arm with his free hand.
I wiggle from his light grip while struggling not to drop the shoebox. “No, Connor.”
This is all probably a game to him. If he had just explained why he was drunk and in my bed this morning, rather than running out of the room and leaving me like a deer in headlights, I wouldn’t be so emotional. But he keeps doing this, keeps running off without giving me any answers, and it’s starting to get to me.
Fuck knows why he hated me on sight before, but that doesn’t mean he gets to act like it didn’t happen. A few nice things don’t make up for shit, and I really hate how much I need this gift because of my situation that I can’t even stand to part with the shoes already. Even worse, I hate that he figured it out, making shame sting the back of my neck.
“The first night I got here, you wanted me gone,” I toss over my shoulder as I shove open the door to the kitchen withhis stupid butt following me. “You may have forgotten, but I haven’t.”
“It’s not like that,” he grumbles, his words sounding pained and sincere. “I haven’t forgotten anything. In fact, I want to make it up to you. It’s why I got them.”
Surprised, I throw the box onto the counter and turn to give him a distrustful look. He opens his mouth to say something else, but I hold up a hand.
“We were at each other’s throats for ages and now we are cuddling. What about any of this makes sense to you?”
“You’re forgetting when you came all over my mouth days ago,” he has the gall to say!
He leans against the counter like this is a normal conversation and folds his arms like nothing is the matter while my skin heats at the memory. To hide my reaction, I shoot him a narrowed stare that says he’s an idiot. A sharp whistle starts from the kettle, and I give him my back, thankful for an out so he can’t see my flush of arousal.
“And you wonder why I can’t take you seriously,” I say through gritted teeth.
“I’m sorry for how I treated you, Whitley.” He opens the box to reveal the most comfortable pair of black work shoes I’ve ever seen, and places them next to me like he wanted an excuse to get in my space. “I truly am, and now I wish for us to be friends.”
“Friends don’t lick friends’ labia, Connor,” I deadpan, since he’d already brought it up. I eye his offering, my heart wanting to cave, but I steel myself against him and whatever charm he has over me.
He closes the space between us, making my breath hitch as he places his hands on either side of me to corner me in. He licks at his lips devilishly and leans into me. “I can be your very special friend then. I don’t have labia, though, so I will need to borrow yours.”
“Ughh!” I groan, strangely turned on by his perverted sense of humor.
His voice goes all deep and rumbly as he continues, “Or I have plenty of other things you can lick.”
My eye begins to twitch at the smirk pulling at his all-too-cute lips.
“I’m going to murder you in your sleep,” I mutter lowly.
