“Well, stop,” I demand while bracing myself on the nightstand and flipping on the dim bedside lamp. “You have no right to touch my stuff.”
He doesn’t stop, nor does he look at me. “Drink your tea and stay calm, baby girl. I don’t want that headache coming back.”
“I’m a galaxy past calm.” I scrub my hands over my face, abundantly aware that I need to shower but caring very little about that. “What would possess you to go through my things?”
He turns his head slowly, and when those wintry gems park on me, they swirl with hurt that pierces my depths. “I held you for about three hours, but then I got restless and wanted to do something. To help.” He drags his hand across his mouth and chin, evidently distraught, but his voice remains a bridled roar,likely due to my migraine. “I lost my fucking mind today when you didn’t answer your goddamn phone, Tess. So, the next time you walk out of this apartment, it will be with me and all your shit. I can’t …”
I’m a little thrown off by that level of emotion from him. From anyone. No one has ever been so distressed that I didn’t answer a phone. It’s heartwarming. And terrifying.
“You can’t what?” I press, unsure if I should be starting there or with him insisting that I move or with what I saw earlier. My thoughts would be cluttered without the post-migraine hangover, but with it, I’m a mess.
“I don’t want to do this if you’re not feeling well.” His focus darts to something in his hand.
“I’m a little off-balance, but much better,” I assure him, grabbing the tea again because, based on his intensity, I’m going to need it. “What do you have there?”
“Your lists.” He arches a brow, silently informing me that he read them all.
I purse my lips and sip the aroma therapy, reveling in the warmth and tingle it instantly bestows. “Oh, those.”
I’m not gonna lie. Part of me feels bad about what’s coming next, but the rest of me stands firm that it’s an apt consequence for snooping.
“I’m on them all.” He lifts a stack into the air before dropping them back into a box. “Every fucking one.”
I hum in feigned consideration. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” His tone is gruff, but his demeanor is petulant, bordering on a tantrum.
“Well”—I lift a shoulder, in full-on goading mode—“you should be flattered.”
A whisper inside me shouts how accurate that statement is, but I stuff it down, not quite ready to reconcile it.
“Flattered?” he scoffs, waving another in the air. “The title at the top is,Things That Piss Me Off.”
“Yep.” I climb off the bed, still holding my tea and glaring at my empty closet. “I have an entry for today. Or ten. People touching my stuff, reading my stuff, and packing my shit without asking.”
“My intention wasn’t to snoop.” That admission has remorse woven through it, so it piques my interest. He drops that box on the floor, but it seems he’s not done with the subject matter. “I was trying to take some things off your plate since that headache was obviously incapacitating you and probably due to stress. But our brains are wired to catch our names.”
That’s valid. I would read something if I saw my name on it, especially in his room. Of course, I’d never dream of breaking into his penthouse.
Still, I take another swill of my tea, set the cup down, and try to minimize his discovery. “It’s a stupid list. Lots of things are on it, and several are repeated.”
“I saw that.” He flashes his devilish lunatic grin, which I find both attractive and disturbing. “Like the post office and loud chewers, so that’s where you’d rank me?”
A deep sigh falls from my lips as I rifle through a basket of clean, folded clothes. “Did you do my laundry?”
“Yep, it was enlightening,” he snaps. “Don’t get me started on how you have pants with fake pockets, or a purse without compartments, or grainy bath salts. All things on your fucking lists.”
“What the hell is happening?” I straighten up too fast, but he’s there to balance me. “You washed my clothes and made me tea and are freaking out about my need to buy an Edgar Allen Poe purse—which is undoubtedly a must-have item with or without compartments, but, yes, it still infuriates me. This is my private crazy.”
His storm-cloud eyes sear into me, thundering with declarations that are far more intimate than his mid-coital professions the other night, despite his ridiculous gripe. “The post office is like Hades, Tess.”
Truth. But also …
“Oh my God.” I charge for the bathroom because I need a shower, and my frustration builds as I pass most of my belongings already packed. “Don’t be so sensitive. It’s not important. It’s just something I do for an outlet.”
“Aside from this month, they’re laminated,” he argues, keeping pace.
“Paper gets ruined easily.”
