“Bad idea.”
Because it itches? Because it makes him look like a scary recluse who’s come in from six months solo in the mountains outside of the city for his biannual snack of small children and city rats?
Or because he’s even hotter with the full beard?
I don’t want to ask so instead slide onto one of the round black stools at the high counter between his kitchen and the dining room as he plops a mason jar of water in front of me. “I heard you skipped optional conditioning today.”
“Pissed.”
“Mad-pissed or drunk-pissed?”
“Drunk.”
“Awesome.” Now that he mentions it, he does smell a little unfortunate. “I was…surprised…that you posted the video the other night.”
“Being a whiny-ass baby doesn’t sell tickets.”
“Worked well.”
“Of course it did.”
He unstraps Sweet Pea and sets her on the kitchen floor, then refills her food dish on the tile near the fridge.
Her little tail wags a thousand miles a minute while she digs into her dinner. It issocute.
I’ve always wanted a dog, but I’ve always wanted to travel the world more. And I can’t yet afford a private jet where my dog could travel in style with me, and I probably wouldn’t get a private jet even if Icouldafford it, so…no dog.
Maybe after I finish my tour of North America and decide where I want to settle.
If I want to settle.
Maybe I’m meant to roam the world for the rest of my days.
“I’m glad something good came out of the other night,” I tell Fletcher.
He eyes me.
Disappears into the fridge.
Comes back out with a carton of hummus and a package of snack-size Gouda slices, which he tosses onto the counter in front of me.
He tears open a bag of pita chips and drops them on the counter too.
Probably smashed half of them.
I don’t much care.
There’s Gouda.
I’m in for Gouda all by itself. It’s not gourmet Gouda, butit’s Gouda, so who cares? And this is Fletcher, so I don’t worry about being polite as I stuff my face with three slices at once.
“I’m sorry I was an ass,” he mutters.
I blink with a mouthful of cheese, and a dribble of drool slips out between my lips as I realize I’m gawking. “Wha areooowwy fo?” I ask.
He pinches his lips together briefly, but I see the softening of his eyes that suggests he’s trying not to smile.
Thank fuck.
