“So. Are you going to feed him?”
“Pfft. No.” Well, maybe. I’d feel bad if I didn’t, not that I’m going to run out and get all the ridiculous items from his grocery list.
Kale, two pounds.
Almond butter, organic.
Seedless cucumbers, two.
Protein powder, five-pound container, found at the health food store.
Tomatoes. Celery. Eggs, three cartons. Almond milk, unsweetened.
The list went on and on and on and was longer than my so-called list of “rules” he doesn’t want to abide by.
“If you want your groceries, you can get them yourself, asshole,” I say out the window after I’ve ended my call with Molly, eyes scanning the backyard for any sight of him.
How did I not know there was a tree house in the backyard? My keen gaze seeks it out like I’m back on playground duty, finally locating it among the mature trees behind the detached garage, its board hidden by years and years of greenery growth.
A flash of a plaid shirt catches my eye.
Eventually, Duke comes sauntering into sight, a cocky swagger I’ll have to learn to get used to for the next fourteen days…
Let the countdown begin.
3
duke
Something smells amazing.
So amazing my stomach growls, wanting to be fed, the toe of my boots hitting the wooden porch step, eager to find a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
Or in this case, a big ole meal once I get through the open door…
Posey had no intention of feedin’ me. That much was evident the second I told her my agent had sent over a food list, the list she couldn’t be bothered to fulfill.
Who tells their guest to fend for themselves? What kind of hostess is that? Three stars, do not recommend.
What does she want me to do, starve?
She’s a kindergarten teacher, for fuck’s sake. Aren’t they supposed to be nurturing?
Eli told me she was the nicest woman he’s ever met, and so far, I ain’t seen any evidence of that.
I follow my nose into the small kitchen and find her at the stove.
“What’s goin’ on?”
When she turns, my eyes stray to her body; she has flour on the tip of her nose, the front of her shirt, on her tits, and in her hair.
Odd that I never gave her a once-over while she was sitting at her desk—then again, she was sitting at her desk, and I wasn’t able to get a good look at her. Not with her eyes all wild. Not when she was wielding a letter opener at me.
Posey is tiny.
Then again, most people are when compared to me. At six-foot-four, I stand taller than most men, but even so, she’s an itty-bitty thing.
Swallowed up inside of a large, gray Harvard sweatshirt, she’s got on navy leggings with bare feet. Her light brown hair is in two braids now, looking more like a college student than a teacher herself.