The deliveryman jumps when Theo’s fork clanks against his plate two seconds before his chair screeches along the floor as he unfolds all, seemingly, ten feet of himself.
I don’t blink. Not even asthe lawapproaches me. He can’t murder me with a witness in the room. What if his towel fell from his waist? Something tells me he wouldn’t move. Why the hell did that thought go through my mind? If he takes one more step, I’ll be nothing more than something he flicks off the bottom of his giant foot.
“Listen, woman, this isn’t your house. You will not fill it with a bunch of fucking flowers.”
After I’m convinced his towel is secure, my eyes retrace their path back to his. The name Kathryn is tattooed in elegant script along his bicep, under a gray gravestone with a single red rose across it. I’m going to assume Kathryn died.
“Scarlet.”
“What?” His face contorts with irritation.
“My name… it’s Scarlet, not woman. We’ve lived together for a week and you’ve never asked my name. Our opportunities for a proper introduction have been squashed by your…”
His eyes widen a fraction. “My?”
I shrug. “Your barmy attitude, like you’ve lost the plot.”
“Lost the plot?”
My attempt to hide my exasperation is rubbish. A deep sigh breezes past my lips. “Yes, like… you’ve been acting ridiculously.”
He gets in my face, really in my face. “Every word that comes out of your mouth drives me fucking crazy, but not as fucking crazy as the way you say everything.”
“Sorry? How do I say everything?”
“Like you think you’re the fucking Queen!”
“I’m not the Queen. I’m just British.”
“Then just don’t speak.”
“Please ignore Mr. Prick and bring in the rest of my plants.” I duck out of Theo’s visual hold on me.
The deliveryman moves in slow motion, keeping his wide eyes on Theo the whole time. “Y-yes, ma’am.”
The second we’re alone, I feel the shadow of Theo’s foot getting ready to squash me. I should run. But… fuck him. For the next six months thisismy house.
“I’m sorry Kathryn died.”
He steps forward so fast, I stumble backwards. The wall saves me from falling onto my bum.
“If you ever say her name again, I will end you.”
My heart takes up permanent residency in my throat. I bet he can see it pulsing in my neck. Once I manage to find a sliver of space to speak past it, I whisper, “Sorry, I’m afraid there’s a queue.”
I blink for the first time since he backed me into the wall. His eyebrows pull tight, like my response somehow confuses or pains him. It can’t be pain. Monsters don’t feel pain.
As the deliveryman brings in the rest of my plants, Theo and I stand toe to toe, sharing thick, tension-filled air. Why is he sosad? Because that’s what he is. Beneath the brute anger, jagged words, and threats, Theodore Reed is a sad man. What does he see when he looks into my eyes? I can’t find myself. I no longer see my own reflection in the mirror. It’s unimaginable that he sees anything beyond my dark skin and unruly hair.
All I see before me is a ridged man with a hardened soul and symbols of his grief etched along his skin in bold ink. My dad never inked himself, but he used to say that people tattooed their skin so the rest of the world could see their hopes and dreams, their fears, their past, their grief.
There’s not enough skin on my body to let my emotions bleed through for the world to see. I’m a bit envious of everyone who can do that.
“Thank you, ma’am. Have a nice day.”
The trance is broken. Theo steps back, his eyes averting to the floor for a brief moment before he turns and disappears to his room.
“Thank you,” I reply in a shaky voice that mirrors the way my body feels after yet another indescribable encounter with Theodore Reed.
