“Why are you giving me that look?” I ask, and yes, maybe it’s rude that the first thing I’m saying to him isthat… butcome on. This man has done nothing but glare and snarl at me whenever I’ve seen him for the last few months.
Like the time he was at Beck’s house after she and her son Jett were so sick with the flu. We’d been in the hospital for three days and came home to his ugly mug glaring at me.
Okay, he’s notugly. He’s ruggedly, stupidly handsome, actually but massively, disgustingly greasy looking, too. A shiver runs up my spine as I think of him that first time we met. And each time thereafter, he was just as surly, like he knew me andloathedme, despite the fact we were fucking strangers.
We still are, and he continues to act the same way toward me. So yeah, I’m accusing him of giving a look becausescrew him. He’s been rude to me for months. And for no fucking reason because he doesn’t know me. Yet he has clearly made his mind up about me. So whether he’s doing a favor for his friend that benefits me or not,fuck him.
I’m tired of being gum on the bottom of a man’s shoe.
He’sthe gum stuck onmyshoe, and I want to tell him that.
But… heisgoing to build my bed, and dammit, I want a bed. I’m so sick of face planting onto hardwood at 2am when I’m trying to stretch out. I’m not twenty anymore. My back hurts and I need my damn sleep.
And because of my need to sleep in a bed, some of my ethos kind of goes out the window. I haven’t slept well in weeks. I mean,fuck him and all thatbut… a girl needs her sleep, too.
In the present, a bead of sweat slithers down his forehead, dripping past his temple. I can’t tell if he’s super sweaty or just filthy because the dark shine in his hair could arguably be grease or sweat. Either way,yuck.
His jaw ticks and the wooden door frame creaks as his massive hand tightens around it, his eyes narrowing on me even more. He ignores my question and even though it wasn’t going to lead to anything but bickering, it somehow still annoys me that he’s decided to drive this conversation, as if my question and words aren’t important enough to address.
“Where’s the bedroom?”
Without taking my eyes off him, I nod down the hallway toward the only other room in this place. And I’m playing it fast and loose with the termhallwaybecause it’s really just five steps from where he’s at now, but still.
He grunts. Doesn't even say okay, just fuckinggrunts. Like an animal or worse, a wild creature that uses sounds to communicate. The kind of noise a man wearing a muzzle in a scary prison movie would make. Seriously.
My eyes fall to his worn, dirty black boots as he takes three steps inside, dropping a screwdriver onto my little table, alongside the bag of food from Delilah. A moment later, he’s out of sight, out in the hallway, moving things around loudly.
Scooping Jett from the ground, I sling him on my hip so he’s out of Atticus’s way.
His subtle movement around my tiny apartment leaves his scent hanging thick in the air. Greasy skin, dirty hair, well-worn clothes and sun-chapped skin, he smells like a man who works in a garage and thinks showers are optional, or sporadic at best.
But it doesn’t necessarily smell bad, and I’m annoyed with myself at that discovery.We don’t like assholes, Goldie. Been there done that, and that’s why you’re here, doing this, as a matter of fact.
When Atticus ambles back in with a plastic-wrapped box spring in tow, he doesn’t bother with words. With his back to me the entire time, he rests the box spring on the top of one boot and walks it down the hall. My shoulders brace for a thunk but when I don’t hear anything, I peer around the corner to see him leaning it against my bedroom wall, putting a towel between so it doesn’t ding the fresh paint.
Well, that’s nice of him. A snarl ripples my lip because even though he’s a jerk and a half, I can’t ignore how careful he’s being.
“Thank you,” I say, patting Jett’s butt as I nod back toward my room. He returns to the apartment doorway in silence. “I just painted so I appreciate that.”
Grunt.Then he walks back out and thuds down the stairs.
“Really?” I say, facing a rosy-cheeked happy baby Jett. “All I get is a grunt, huh?”
A second later he’s in the apartment again, eyes honed in on me like we have a bone to pick.
“It wasn’t a question,” he says, and wow,he knows how to speak!I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes at his snark.
“No it wasn’t but usually when someone says thank you, you sayyou’re welcome.”
“Welcrummm,” Jett jumbles, his chubby little hand slapping my collarbone playfully.
“Ahh, that’s not surprising,” I coo to Jett before returning my focus to Atticus. “A baby has more manners than you.”
“You callin’ me rude?” he questions, throwing a thick thumb back into his chest. His eyebrows lift in slight inquisition.
“I call it like I see it,” I say with a smile that I actually feel, unlike the one I’d given Delilah earlier. I never got to tell my ex that he was a prick, so this verbal purge aimed at Atticus feels better than it probably should.
“I’mdoin’ you a favor andI’mrude?” his deadpan tone is such a low rumble that it’s hard to not feel it between my legs, despite the fact it’s coming fromhim. Ugh.