“Here we go.” I push the door open to the house’s storage closet. Like, literally, it’s a tiny room used to store linens and stuff.
Glancing in, Wilder laughs. “That’s a good one. Your great-grandfather said you wouldn’t be happy about this, but he did say the room was decent, though. I think you’re pulling my leg.”
Yes, his big DADDY Longleg legs. “Pulling your leg? Do people still say that?”
“I guess I still say it. Anyway, where’s the real room?”
I grin very reluctantly, only because I can’t hold it in—who doesn’t appreciate a good brain being put to good use—but I angle away so Wilder can’t see it. “You’re right. I was just kidding. It’s right down here.” I walk to the end of the hall and stop at the door to one of the rooms I use for my crafting. Every single room in the house is currently used for my crafting.
All except the one that has typically been rented out in the past. It’s spic and span and totally cleaned out, ready for its next unfortunate occupant. I’ve left it empty because Pappy S asked me to, and it’s his house, so I wasn’t going to clutter it up and defy him because that would just be a full-on prick move. I don’t like to think of myself as a prick.
Slowly pushing the door to the room open, I savor the creek and squeal of the hinges, and I also savor Wilder’s indrawn breath.
“Oh,” Wilder states flatly, keeping his voice purposely devoid of emotion. “Are those…”
“Pads? Yup. They certainly are. You’ll have to clean this up before you can move your stu-err…shit in.”
“But…why would…that’s a lot of pads.” His eyes sweep the room. He’s standing behind me, looming over like a monstrous shadow with his big ass body and fine ass that I still haven’t checked out.
“Yup, lots.”
“But…why?”
“That should be obvious,” I say flatly.
Wilder has no idea that I sell homemade things online for a living. Actually, no, he probably does, as Pappy S likely leaked it to him. I take part in trade and craft shows, and I make lots of things, but reusable feminine products are one of my biggest sellers. They just make sense in a world where people are finally getting that throwing things out all the time isn’t great for the environment. Also, the products I make are comfortable, soft, and organic, and most importantly, they work.
“I mean…you really…there are hundreds in here.”
“Yes, just pack them up. I’ll bring a box, and you can move everything into the room upstairs—the far door on the left. Although, be careful with the sewing machines. They were expensive. You can move the desk and the chair too, but also be careful. The staircase is kind of narrow as the house is old.”
“Where are you going to be?”
“Um, right here! I’d never leave someone I didn’t know alone in my house with my animals. And by the way, if you let the cats or the dog out while your shit is being moved in here, I’m going to lose my freaking mind. Do you want me to lose my freaking mind?”
Wilder swallows hard, and I can imagine how his Adam’s apple looks bobbing in the delicious column of bronzed skin that serves as his throat. I hate how I noticed his throat also has a layer of dark stubble on it. Wilder basically resembles his name. He looks like he’d be good at bushcraft, but he’d probably just step in poison ivy and eat bad mushrooms. As looks can be deceiving, I’ve learned to be wary. It’s a lesson I learned the hard way.
“No, I don’t want you to lose your mind. Anyway, how many cats are there?”
“Six. Can you count that high?”
“Yes, I can.”
“Are you sure? Some look the same.”
“I can.”
“And a dog. Don’t. Let. Them. Out.”
“Okay.”
“You’ll move all this stuff up? I have work to do in one of the other rooms upstairs.”
“Your great-grandfather…uh…he did say a room would be ready for me.”
“Ready?” I scoff. “Ready? How is this not ready? Unless you can’t box up a few things and move a couple of things on your own? In that case, let me—” I step forward with my shoulders back, ready to take charge. It’s a test, and Wilder knows it.
There’s really no way to win, and I think he knows it too.
But then, he surprises me.
“We could box it up together. I’ll do the heavy stuff, and you could take the…err…erm… products since I don’t want to wreck anything. And the sewing machines. They look delicate.”
“They could kill you if they fell on you.”
“Still, they probably have settings and such.”
I grind my teeth. J Murphy. Most hot guys are also not that smart unless it comes to being dishonest, asshole dickheads who like to run around and dip their disgusting tiny little weenuses into people they are not dating while dating someone else. In those cases, they are usually quite smart—smart as a fox.