I suddenly whirl around, catching Wilder so off guard that he actually steps back. For the record, I’m only five-six, probably a whole foot shorter, and definitely a hundred to a hundred and fifty pounds lighter, but maybe he’s just trying to give me space. Maybe I look like a puffed-up, feral cat, which is not what he was expecting. I suppose he expected a docile, welcoming, happy-to-have-him-roommate who would roll out the freaking red carpet for his arrival.
Whatever. Pappy S wants to scheme? Well, so can I. Challenge. Mother. Loving. With. Pickles. And. Cheese. Accepted.
“Are you an asshole?” I ask, point-blank to his face. Normally I’m not so into swearing, but again, whatever. This guy doesn’t know that, and he’s not going to tell anyone because he won’t last long enough to tell.
At my question, Wilder’s dark brow arches. “Define asshole.”
Hmm. Witty. Hot guys are usually not very witty either as they’re only good for looking hot and sticking their weenuses where they don’t belong. See the pattern there?
“Okay, I changed my mind. You box up the product, and I’ll take the heavy stuff.”
Wilder stares me down, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s too macho to touch a clean, brand new, and freshly made piece of fabric in the shape of a feminine product. However, Wilder proves me wrong. Much to my surprise, his balls are bigger than specks of dust because he mans up, clears his throat, and gives me a smile I know is forced.
“Well, I’m not an asshole, so I’ll box everything up and do the heavy lifting. I’m sure you have something you need to be doing anyway. And uh, yeah, I won’t let out any cats either. Or the dog.”
“Thanks so much for offering,” I say with forced sweetness. Dear god, I could choke myself with all that sugar right now. It’s a wonder I don’t give us both spontaneous cavities. “I am really busy, and you’re right. I don’t think you are an asshole. Although, you’ll soon learn that I prefer not to swear. I like to substitute words instead because swearing is pretty vulgar. I’m just worked up at the moment. Shit would become stuff, and other words would be…uh…I don’t know. Things like poo pants, titillating shit, bacon bits…?”
“What would sub for asshole?” It’s asked in a kind of not assholish tone, but Wilder is clearly unimpressed by my attempt at laying down house rules.
“I…I don’t know. A spitty spittoon, maybe?”
“What’s a spittoon?”
“Oh geez. You really need to get your antiques straight.” I spin and walk back down the hall, trying not to let out a breath until I’m far enough away that Wilder—whatever his last name is—won’t hear it. I don’t want him to know he’s worked me up. I haven’t even defined what exactly it means beyond the fact that my heart is racing so hard, and I have a wad of anxiety in my throat from it. “First door on the left,” I call over my shoulder, knowing full well the desk will never fit up the staircase.
There’s an empty room down the hall, and the door is unlocked.
Score one for me. Everyone else and their schemes—zero.
CHAPTER 4
Wilder
Fuck. My. Life.
Or maybe it should be bacon bits my life, spittoon my life, chicken leg my life, fickle dickle doodle, or whatever it is I’m supposed to say so as not to offend Esme’s delicate sensibilities. Although, she doesn’t seem quite so delicate to me, and she doesn’t look like she needs taking care of. I think her great-grandfather is seriously out to pasture on this one. Err…maybe that’s the wrong thing to say. Perhaps it’s out to lunch. Shit. Anyway, I think she’s on to him already. And to me. She appears pretty effing pissed about this whole thing.
And I’m pretty damn sure this desk isn’t going to fit up this motherclucking stairwell.
The thing is heavy as hell. It’s ancient, and I do know a thing or two about antiques, contrary to what Esme believes. I know for a fact that they’re heavy. I know they’re really heavy.
At this moment, I’m glad I’m in shape, but who needs to hit the gym when you can just move massive desks up narrow stairways every day of the week?
I’m very sure she did this on purpose. I wedge the desk up another stair and grunt at the effort it takes me. Rivulets of sweat dribble over my forehead and run down the sides of my face. I can taste the saltiness on my lips, which means my upper lip is probably sweating too. That only ever happens under extreme duress or when I eat salt and vinegar chips. Don’t ask me why about that last bit because I have no idea.
Another two steps and the desk wedges hard between the railing and the wall. The stairwell is so narrow that I already know I’ll have to lift the desk over the railing, which is a good four feet tall, to get it up there. The legs would have to be angled, so they don’t get caught in the railing. The desk is like a lead lump. It’s not huge, but I feel like its maker decided on pure heart-attack wood. It’s the kind of wood so blasted heavy, a person can’t lift it without killing themselves.