“Can you get off me now?” Hector’s breath is a torrent of peppermint-scented gum.
Using my last remaining might, I roll over in the snow before picking myself up and dusting myself off. That coffee earlier did nothing to prepare me for another encounter with Hector. I’m running on empty.
“What are you even doing here?”
“Trying not to die,” I half joke while racking my brain for an appropriate lie. My eyes land on the bright-orange HELP WANTED sign in the front window. “I was…applying for a job?”
Hector laughs right in my face, no holding back while still absent-mindedly holding my arm. If I’m cut off forever, perhaps I can make a living doing stand-up comedy. At least I know I have one fan, even if my jokes are entirely unintentional. “No, seriously. What are you doing?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
“Not that it’s any of your business,” Hector starts, “but Rosalie’s youngest daughter, Cherry, is in my Victorian literature class. We’re writing a joint final paper onA Christmas Carol. She asked me to meet her here so we could work in the tearoom.”
I remember the tearoom as the place where Mom, Grandma, and I would go when I was young. Though, back then, I hated the taste of bitter hot tea, so Rosalie would bring me warm milk and all the macarons my stomach could handle. This town isn’t just small; it’s crushingly small. Reminding me of everything I once had.
“Wait,” Hector says, jolting me from the memory. “Hang on, were you trying to get a room here?”
“No.” He doesn’t budge, struck with skepticism, so I give in. “I was trying to get asuitehere.”
“Seriously?”
“There’s a difference!”
He throws up his hands. “You’re seriously something else!”
“Why do you keep saying that?”
“Because I don’t know what else to say to you. You whirled in here like the churlish roommate from hell…”
“Says the boy who snores like he’s possessed…” I mutter to myself, but not quietly enough apparently. I need to work on that.
“Shit, I snored?” He appears so disheartened—a sharp about-face. I’m almost afraid to nod, but I do it anyway. He has no interest in sparing my feelings. He’s just like the internet vultures.
“Ugh, my ex used to hate that. I mean,haaaaaaaatethat. It happens a lot when the weather gets cold.”
“Your ex?” Curiosity kicks the question right out of my mouth. I shouldn’t be intrigued by this, but of course I am.
“Yeah, she always begged me to try those sticky strips, but I don’t know, dude. Do those even work? They make no sense to me.”
I shrug and make a mental note of his ex. Not that I need to file that information away for safekeeping, but it should hopefully squelch some of my sudden-onset interest. That doesn’t mean this dude isnotinto dudes; it just means he’s got an open thing with a recent ex. At least an open-enough thing that he’d bring it up. Unless he’s one of those weird people who gets emotional closure after relationships and then still talks about them fondly. Gross.
“Your point is?” I ask, reverting to our natural snarky state.
“My point is that I can’t control that, so deal with it, dude.”
“I was dealing with it by trying to get a room here!”
“A room? I thought it was asuite.” His comment is a sandpapery caress of derision.
“I…” I stop short before saying something I might regret. “You’re the worst.”
“Yeah, well, the feeling is mutual, and for both of our sakes, I hope you were successful securing that suite.” He shoulders his way past me to the porch.
“I wasn’t. They’re booked. We’re stuck with each other.” I groan.
We stand there in a gridlock. Him on the top step. Me down below. Heated eyes that linger too long, and for a second, it feels like there’s a flicker of detestable lust lapping off his hard countenance. Like at any second we could rip into each other in a wild, animalistic way. Shed our layers to get to the root of our loathing.
But it evaporates just as quickly as it came. My imagination is going to get me into trouble.
