Page 56 of Sweetheart: Part One

He was palming the back of his neck, glancing about along with me. “Can’t relax when the room’s a mess like this.”

My lips parted at those words and I looked up at him, trying to understand if he meant what I thought he meant. But Rook was already crossing the room to the couch, picking a remote and turning on the TV.

I stood there for a long moment, trying to process.

Cleaning his room?

I don’t know what I’d expected, but it was such a one-eighty from Love last night that I was having trouble keeping up.

He wasn’t even looking at me right now, scrolling through the channels for something to watch.

The longer the time stretched, the harder it was to find my voice. Finally, I forced myself to approach, sitting on the other end of the couch.

“I need you to tell me what you want,” I said.

His eyes flickered to me as if I were nothing more than an annoyance. “Tidy the room.”

“I’m not a maid.”

“You’re whatever I want you to be.” He lowered his remote, finally fixing his full attention on me as if I were crazy.

I warred with the thousand furious things that rose to the surface.

Nothing is worse than Alastor.

“I’m a Sweetheart.”

“Not in here.” He chuckled, tilting his head. “Not that Ienjoycomparing myself to Ebony, but I’m not a big fan of letting other people into my space either,” he said. “I barely let the cleaner in, and I’ve never let a Sweetheart in.”

It was impossible not to understand what he was saying. “So if I…” I swallowed.“Tidythe room, I’ll be worth keeping around?”

“Don’t know yet.” He shrugged. “Never had a sexy maid.” And with that, he turned his attention back to the TV, pretending I didn’t exist.

Time left the slightest smile curving his lips, as if, for every second that passed with me sitting here in stunned silence, he found a little more joy.

I forced myself to my feet.

Nothing. Is. Worse. Than Alastor.

I’d forgotten that last time, when I’d lashed out at him. I couldn’t afford to forget it again.

I reminded myself over and over as I picked up piles of books and placed them back on his shelves, as I collected up cans and plates and stacked them.

Whatever.

This was just cleaning.

I darted to the little kitchenette outside in the living room with the stack. Rook’s room was blessedly close to it, so no one saw the petite dressing gown I was wearing as I carried his dirty dishes.

After that, it was a fight to keep myself from stomping about, picking up tossed clothes, books, magazines and all the other crap he hadn’t dealt with. I didn’t say a word, not even to ask where shit went. Nothing. I’d make it look presentable, and I wouldn’t fucking talk.

Whenever I spared a glance in his direction, he was attentive to the movie he’d put on, but I still felt his gaze on me when my back was turned.

Finally, I returned to the couch and sat down.

“Is it clean enough?” I asked, when he spared me a glance. He wrinkled his nose, straightening and grabbing the remote. Pausing the TV, he looked around the place. After finding nothing particularly egregious, he shrugged. “Alright, I guess,” he said. Then his brows furrowed, as if he’d spotted something he didn’t like.

“What?” I asked.

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