“I didn’t lend you my truck.”
“Whatever.”
He tosses the keys on the table, watching me curiously.
“Where did you go?”
“Went shopping. Bought myself this cute top,” I say, pinching my new lavender blouse. A nice statement piece given the ocean of black in my closet. “And I got myself a cute little manicure too.” I wriggle my freshly painted nails in front of Kayden’s face.
“Now I’m upset you didn’t invite me out. Would have loved a French mani,” Kayden mumbles.
“Help me with these.” I drag the cans over to the kitchen.
Instead of offering aid, he simply stares at the paint.
“What are we going to do with these?”
I grin wolfishly at him. “We’re painting your apartment today.”
A pause that seems to stretch on for miles. Followed by—
“Not a fucking chance.”
“Come on,” I whine, like I’ve just been told I can’t have candy for breakfast. “This place is miserable.”
“But I like it the way it is.”
“You’ve been living here for so long now,” I protest.
“Don’t you think it needs to look more like your home?”
“Why do you care?” Kayden demands.
“Because!” I retort. “I just do, all right? I just care. I care about you and I want this place to look more like our place than a dungeon. I care because I’d rather do this on Valentine’s Day than lock myself in a room thinking of what I’d be doing if I was still in a relationship.”
I stop to catch my breath and I see Kayden’s eyes flood with sympathy. He stares at me, long and hard, flattening his lips into a thin line.
“Today sucks for you, doesn’t it?” He murmurs.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I need of get my mind off of it, that’s all.”
Kayden offers me a sympathetic smile.
“Okay. Fine.” He gives in. “Maybe you’re right. This place does look like shit. I hope you bought paint rollers.”
Shit. I can’t believe I spent three hours at Home Depot only to not buy paint rollers. “Um . . .”
Kayden’s eyes flutter closed, trying to process my stupidity.
“What kind of person buys paint but not paint rollers?”
“I forgot! I was too busy figuring out all the colors I wanted to get,” I say defensively, resting my hands against my hips. “Do you have any?”
“Does it look like I paint shit around here?”
Damn, Killer, a simple no would have sufficed.
“Fine,” I snap, not wanting to continue this argument.