“This fur isn’t friendly fur, it releases toxins on the skin and causes a rash.”
I gasped.
“Calm down, it’s not like you touched it, right?”
I shivered. “No, I’d like to think I’m a faster sprinter than that. My mom, on the other hand . . .”
He let out a low chuckle.
“It’s not funny!” I slapped him on the chest.
“Your mom in the kitchen, flailing her arms and sending a giant spider careening into the air near your head while you sprint toward the couch. Very funny, some might even say downright hilarious.” He placed his hand on the bucket. “And if you don’t want a repeat, I’d at least get on the chair or find the couch again, it’s gonna be pissed.”
“Poor Charlie.”
“Why Charlie?”
“Because I think it’s a boy, and you can’t name a boy Charlotte.”
He rolled his eyes. “Sometimes I forget how young you are.”
“Hey!”
“Sorry.” He bit down on his perfect lower lip, his icy-blue eyes alert, as he slowly lifted the bucket, higher, higher, and then completely off the floor.
“Son of a bitch,” he mumbled.
I covered my eyes. “I killed it, didn’t I?”
“Um.” He wasn’t saying anything. Why wasn’t he saying anything?
“Thatch?” I peeked between my fingers to see him scratching his head and doing a 360 in place. “Thatch, what’s wrong? Is Charlie dead?”
“No?”
“It’s either yes or no!” I snapped, jumping off the couch, ready to apologize to the poor spider I’d suffocated.
But there was no dead spider on the floor.
There was no spider at all.
Just a blue bucket.
And a clean floor.
“Thatch.” My throat was suddenly dry as I whispered, “Where’s Charlie?”
He grabbed my arm with his hand, his fingers warm as they dug into my skin, and then he whispered the words that no woman ever wants to hear.
“Don’t. Move.”
“Thatch,” I said through clenched teeth, “if this is a joke, it’s not funny.”
“Do I look like I’m laughing?” His eyes were staring at my feet. I was afraid to look down. So afraid, but of course, when someone is staring that hard at something, you have no choice but to look, right?
Slowly, I lowered my gaze.
And wouldn’t you know? There was Charlie, hovering near my big toe.
I was wearing sandals.
The gladiator sandals.
I was a gladiator without a weapon.
Completely screwed.
And as if Charlie sensed it, he lifted one of his hairy legs into the air, seemingly trying to taste the tension swirling around my pink toe.
“Stay calm,” Thatch said evenly as he slowly knelt near the spider.
“I’m trying.” My hands were shaking at my sides as the saucer-sized spider continued its weird mating thing with its legs in the air. “I think it’s upset.”
“It was in a bucket,” Thatch hissed. “Of course it’s upset! You can’t even hide in a closet without freaking out.”
“One time!” I whispered. “And it was really dark!”
“Translation—you’re afraid of the dark.”
“At least I can ride a bike.”
“You want to do this right now?” He was still whispering as he slowly extended his large perfect surgeon’s hands out to the spider, and suddenly, I realized how this would end.
The spider would bite him.
Thatch’s bite would get infected.
And he wouldn’t be able to do his job.
Or pay off his student loans.
Leaving him in debt.
On the street.
Naked.
Dead.
Thatch was going to die.
“Wait!” I slowly lowered my body to the floor. Fear pounded in my ears as I held out my hands and Charlie lumbered onto my palms. It tickled. It would be nice if I weren’t so terrified of spiders.
Shaking, I walked over to the bucket and gently set him inside, this time right side up, so Thatch could transport him later. Just as I pulled my hands away, something sharp dug into my skin.
“Motherfu—”
Thatch grabbed me just before I collapsed against the floor, hands shaking and pain searing through my right thumb.
Before I knew what was happening, Thatch was carrying me over to the couch. Soft pillows met my back as he grabbed my thumb and held it close to his face.
“Am I going to die?” I whimpered. “Because the Discovery Channel said tarantula bites feel like bee stings—they’re liars from the pit of hell!”
Thatch narrowed his eyes at the puffy red mark and then slowly dropped my hand to my side. “You’ll live.”
“Well, that’s encouraging. Don’t I at least get a sticker? A sucker? For saving your life?”
“You?” He chuckled and joined me on the couch. “Saved my life by getting bit by a tarantula?”
“Keep up!” Talking was at least distracting me from the throbbing pain. At least it had dulled a bit, though the fact that I had spider venom in my hand made me cringe. “If it bit you, you wouldn’t be able to do your job.”
He seemed thoughtful. “You mean I’d finally get a vacation where I’m allowed to sleep for lo
nger than three hours?”
“Well, when you put it that way,” I grumbled, and tried to cross my arm, then hissed as pain exploded down my hand.
He grabbed it again. “At least the venom is weak, it’s really just the puncture wound from the spider’s fangs that causes the swelling.”
“Well, that’s disappointing on so many levels. I save your life and I don’t even get to turn into Spider-Man.”
“Tough luck, maybe next time.” He winked.
It was nice.
Sitting with him on the couch.
My legs on his lap.
My eyes focused on his mouth.
Abort! Abort!
I quickly looked away but not fast enough—he caught me staring where I shouldn’t have been staring, and I felt like a complete loser for still lusting after him the way I was.
What was it about Thatch?
Other than everything?
He was brilliant. Hardworking. Gorgeous. And he fought spiders on behalf of a girl he’d dumped.
Damn it.
“This leads nowhere,” he said in a hollow voice. “You understand that, right?”
It was like he’d just handed me the world’s happiest balloon and then popped it with a giant needle.
I was utterly defeated and deflated.
Even though I knew going into this there was no hope of us getting back together, I’d officially turned into that sad, pathetic clinger.
I’d always made fun of “those girls.”
And now “that girl” stared back at me in my own stupid mirror.
I let out a long sigh and nodded slowly. “This is strictly business, Thatch. You know how important this class is to me, how important getting my MBA is to me.”
He looked away, his jaw clenched. “Parents still MIA for the most part?”
I nodded.
“And the reelection, I imagine your dad wants you to join his mayoral campaign again?”
A sick feeling grew in the pit of my stomach.
To my parents, I was a trophy. Something shiny and pretty they could trot out to gain votes from families who appreciated their having taken time out of their busy lives to sire a child.
Granted, I knew my parents loved me.
They just loved me in their own way—the only way they knew how.
“I have to graduate,” I stressed again. “The job market’s fierce out there, and an MBA will help with that. The sooner I graduate, the sooner I can start my own life away from all of this.” I lifted my hands into the air.