And I get the feeling Fletcher would probably rather piss off his neighbors so they move and he can have the whole floor for peace instead of worrying about irritating his neighbors.
And the door still doesn’t open.
Fine.
Fine.
He doesn’t want to see me.
I shove away from the wall and head toward the elevator as the distinct sound of a lock turning clicks through the hallway.
And a moment later, I’m staring at a very irritated Fletcher Huxley.
I think.
He doesn’t…look…exactly like Fletcher.
His eyes are the same.
Nose the same.
Jaw the same.
But the complete and utter lack of a mustache in that area between his upper lip and nose is making his face sit differently.
I make a noise somewhere between a gasp and a pig squeal, andI don’t know why.
Okay, fine. I know why.
I know exactly why.
He’shot.
Like, fresh lava had a torrid love affair with molten steel that resulted in a magical new kind of clay that a Greek god slapped on a pottery wheel to sculpt Fletcher Huxley while angels played Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On” on flutes and harps and an electric guitar.
“Put it back,” I finally say.
He rolls his eyes, grabs my arm, and hauls me into his condo. “What do you want?”
I shield my eyes. “To see if you’re okay.”
“I’m bloody brilliant. Why are you—what the fuck’s wrong with you? Quit hiding your eyes.”
“You need the mustache back.”
Silence is my only reply.
There’s a lot of silence going around when I’m with Fletcher since his ’stache died a premature death.
I part two fingers and risk a glance at his face.
Holy fuckinghellhounds.
Did his dark hair always have that hint of curl? Was his forehead always sloped that way over his brow? Were his eyes always that exact emerald shade of green?
Why did taking off the ’stache make him so hot?
He glares at me before leaving me in the foyer to stroll deeper into the condo. “First you hate it, then you want it back. Make up your fucking mind.”
