I can’t make out much of 3.5’s face in the darkness of the car, but I can tell he’s not amused.
“Lady M, I promise you, this is my house. Where I live,” he says, sounding weary. “And yes, my life is pretty tragic, as it happens, so you got that right. But that doesn’t change the fact that This. Is. My. House. And I’m going to go inside and get some sleep now, if it’s all right with you.”
And, with that, he opens the car door, lurches out…and falls flat on his face on the driveway.
Ouch.
Chapter 4
The house is even more impressive on the inside than it was on the outside.
Not that I would know, mind you. No, as soon as I get 3.5 inside — and I will never know exactlyhowI managed to do that, considering the state he was in — he crashes onto a couch in the entrance hall, and immediately falls asleep, leaving me standing there like one of old Jimmy’s prize turnips, wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do now.
Iwantto have a good look round the house, obviously. Oh, come on: whowouldn’t? This is quite possibly the swankiest house I’ve ever been in. It’s more like a hotel than someone’s home, really, and it makes me feel instantly grubby and out of place, like little orphan Annie when she first arrives at Daddy Warbucks’ place.
Hey, I wonder if there’s one of those walk-in pantries, where all the food is meticulously organized, like in a shop? Because that’s my idea of porn, basically (Look, I like things neat, okay?), and now that I’ve thought about it, I’m just itching to go and find out if it exists.
At the same time, though, I have that pesky new conscience of mine to think of, don’t I? My conscience, which keeps piping up to remind me that I’m trying to be good, and that snooping around someone else’s house in the middle of the night would be the exactoppositeof that, really. And also that I’m still not 100% convinced Mr. 3.5 isn’t just the cleaner, or gardener, or something, and that therealowner isn’t about to come downstairs with a gun in his hand, and ask me what I’m doing in his pantry.
WhatamI doing here, though?
Good question. I’ve been askingmyselfthat too, actually.
So far the answer involves me sitting in the vast marble foyer of this house, watching 3.5 snore on the couch he collapsed onto, and turning him onto his side every time he rolls onto his back, so that he doesn’t throw up in his sleep and then choke on it.
Nice of me, I know. Quite unlike me, too, to be honest. There’s a reason I’ve never owned any pets — not so much as a gerbil, or a goldfish — and it’s that I don’t want the responsibility of keeping something other than myself alive.
So how did I somehow manage to become responsible for this hairy stranger, then? And how long do I have to sit here, I wonder, before I can go home and leave him to it?
I have no idea. Fortunately for me, though, Mr. 3.5 hasn’t given me much trouble; or not unless you count the obnoxious snoring, and the occasional grunt he keeps giving in his sleep.
He seriously could not be less attractive if he actually tried. And, I mean, I know ugly people can be rich, too, obviously. Mum might have raised me to believe my face was my fortune — as well as being the only thing I had going for me — but I’m not as stupid as I let everyone think I am. I know you don’t have to be born beautiful to be successful in life (Look at all of those tech billionaires, for instance.), but there’s no denying ithelps. And 3.5 is… he’s…
I frown, trying to think of a nice way to finish that train of thought.
Be good, Lexie. Be good.
“Mphhhh!”
The figure on the sofa lets out a weird, strangled grunt, then rolls onto his back again, and I lean forward, hovering over him as I take him by the shoulders and try to ease him back onto his side.
“Wh… what’s happening?”
His eyes snap open, and his arms come up to grab at my waist. I’m not sure if he’s trying to pull me closer or push me away, but the movement knocks me off balance and sends me hurtling towards his surprised face as he lies on the couch beneath me. At the last second, my hands come up to break my fall, landing one on each side of 3.5’s head.
I’m practically straddling the guy now, my body weight entirely supported by his hands as I lean over him, my hair swinging in his face, and our noses almost touching. We’re so close I can smell the sour trace of whisky on his breath, with some kind of musky aftershave lurking underneath it. So close that I can feel the muscles in his legs tense underneath me as he shifts position, making my body tip even further forward,
Could this nightpossiblyget any worse, I wonder?
Those emerald eyes of his widen in surprise, and my entire body cringes in anticipation of what’s about to happen.
He’s going to try to kiss me. I just know it. And, okay, I guess I kind ofamgiving him the impression I might be into that, given my current mortifying position astride his lap, but I’m afraid he’s going to be disappointed, because there’s absolutely no way I’m going to…
“OUCH!”
Mr. 3.5 moves so fast I don’t have a chance to get out of the way, and, before I know what’s happening, his forehead makes sudden and dramatic contact with my lips, ricocheting off my face hard enough that I’m sure I’ll have a bruise tomorrow.
Well, I guess we can add “terrible kisser” to 3.5’s list of crimes, then.
