I narrowed my eyes. “What’s funny?”
He shook his head. “Nothing? It’s just that you’re…” His eyes strayed up toward my hair. “Cute.”
Cute? Oh. Oh, fucking fucksticks. I glanced in the antique oval mirror over the dresser and confirmed my worst nightmare. While Champ looked like a freshly laundered Captain America with his perfectly coiffed blond locks and ogle-worthy pecs, I’d gone to bed with my hair wet and product-free after a postcoital shower, and it was at that moment doing a spectacular impression of a chestnut-colored cotton ball.
The morning got worse and worse.
I slid out of bed in just my boxer briefs, shouldered past him, and padded down the hall to the kitchen, where the coffee was already brewed and waiting, which I guessed was the silver lining of Champ’s visits…
Okay, that and the truly phenomenal sex. And the laughter. And the witty conversations.
But these mornings after were killing my mojo.
I poured myself a cup and called over my shoulder, “I don’t think we need to discuss anything. We covered all of your concerns during your freak-out on Sunday morning. And Friday. And Thursday. And last Monday. You don’t want a relationship. Terrific. Neither do I. Don’t blame me because you find me irresistibly attractive, okay? If you’re ready to put an end to this, then stop coming around.”
And I would be fine with that, I told myself, despite the pang in my stomach that called me a liar.
A huff of laughter from the doorway was the only thing that alerted me I’d been followed down the hall. The man was too damn sneaky by far.
“Obviously, I find you attractive. Very attractive. Too damn attractive. I’m just concerned you’re making this into something it’s not, Quinn. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Sincerity rang in every syllable he uttered. The man truly, truly believed what he was saying.
It was very sweet.
It was also utterly maddening.
Which was pretty much on-brand for my interactions with Percy Champion.
“Sweet Jesus.” I sipped my caffeine juice. “Let me make sure I understand. You’re being a jerk to save my feelings, you assume I’m a ‘relationship guy’ even though I’ve given you no reason to believe this, and you’re confident that any man who did want a relationship would want one with you. Have I got that right?”
Champ spread his hands. “You’re a wedding planner,” he said softly, like that explained everything.
“No shit,” I shot back, because it kind of did explain everything, just not the way Champ thought.
I loved my job—loved the challenge, and the romance, and the pageantry of it—but there was something about planning a bride’s third wedding in eight years that took the bloom off the rose when it came to “forever.” Most wedding planners I knew felt the same.
Plus, I’d been partly raised by my Aunt Cherry, who liked to remind me, “Lovers are like baby tigers, Quinny—adorable at first, but more dangerous the longer you keep ’em around.”
And if all that weren’t enough, the last time I’d decided to play the odds and risk a commitment, I hadn’t just gotten burned, I’d been charred, thus proving once again that Cherry was always right.
“I keep telling you, but you keep not hearing me, so this time, please pay attention: I do not want a relationship. Not ever again,” I said bluntly. I set my empty cup in the sink and dusted my hands. “And I’m tired of waking up to your assumptions and regrets and… and… weird, totally unfounded accusations of clothing theft.”
“They’re not unfounded. Shirts don’t just disappear—”
“When you’re ready to apologize,” I interrupted, “I might consider listening. But until then, maybe spend your evenings at your own house—the house you claim to have, despite never inviting me over—”
“I told you, it’s under renovation. And you’re missing the point—”
I lifted my chin. “Are you going to apologize for yanking me out of my dream and killing my morning vibe?”
Champ set his jaw.
“Just as I thought. Then this discussion is over. See yourself out.” I strolled down the hall toward the bathroom, stripping my boxers into the hall hamper along the way.
I heard his breath catch as I sashayed my naked ass through the bathroom door and shut it with a click, and I congratulated myself on making the best flounce in the history of flounces.
I wouldn’t waste another second of my day thinking about Champ.
Quincy Taffet: 1, Percy Champion: 0.
But when I emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, I realized my point-scoring had been a little premature.
“The man is either fucking diabolical or criminally negligent,” I fumed. “How the hell am I supposed to aggressively not think about him now?”
The golden-brown fluffball in the middle of my hall runner cocked his head as if he were unsure also.
“Champ?” I yelled, though I could tell instinctively that I was the only human in the house.