However, that said, knocking would bother him.
But, then again, what if something’s wrong?
Or what if I’m overreacting?
What if knocking makes him hate me?
“Don’t be silly, Citrus,” I whisper, taking careful steps up the path toward the front door. “You have chocolate.”
Samson couldn’t hate someone with chocolate. He doesn’t even hate Austin. And I’m way cuter than Austin. And Austin does not usually have chocolate.
Finding comfort in that rational thought, I knock on the door, hold my breath, and wait.
Several moments pass before Samson appears in disheveled glory, wearing naught but sweatpants.
My mouth falls open, eyes stuck on his main scar as it plays across his skin, dipping into and out of ridges of muscle while it cuts from throat to abs.
Blessed be.
My addiction.
I can stave off the withdrawals for another day…
Upon realizing I’m, well,me, he curses and tucks himself mostly behind his door, leaving only a slit for his crackling blue eyes to peer through. “I thought you were… I thought youweren’t…” He clears his throat and cusses again, wincing. “Sorry.”
“Were you…asleep?” I ask.
Refusing to look at me, he provides a curt nod and mutters, “Didn’t sleep well.”
That’s the second day in a row. Does this realism mod contain sickness? Is he sick? Should I put this chocolate up for another day and get some soup at the tavern? Samson has a kitchen… Do I offer to make him something from scratch? Am Icapableof making something edible from scratch? I am a professional cook. But I’m also only a professionalfrycook…which means I’m basically Spongebob without the youthful passion…
“What do you want?” Samson asks, tone far softer than the coarse words might suggest.
I fiddle with my paper bag. “I came to thank you, for yesterday, but if you’re not feeling well…maybe sugar isn’t the best thank-you gift…”
He murmurs, “I’m feeling fine. And you don’t have anything to thank me for. My precaution was unwarranted. You can clearly take care of yourself. And, upon seeing that, I posed more danger to you than anything else.”
Um. Yes. The sword to my throat is ninety-five percent what I’m thanking you for, silly man.
I don’t say that, though. I say, “Your glow ring was helpful. I would have really struggled in the dark regardless of how well I can take care of myself against the monsters.”
Eyes darting elsewhere, he grunts. “Slate could have helped you with light. Might have gone with you, too. He’d have loved your random facts and statistics.”
My heart rate trips, because all I hear is the wordlovedas said in peanut and caramel tones. “A-anyway, I appreciated your help.” I thrust the chocolates forward. “I have to check my mail now. Bye!”
After he takes the bag, I stampede back to my farm, berating myself for being so graceless.
I guess what they say is true.
You can take the girl out of Florida and put her in a magical fantasy world…but you can’t take the astigmatism out of the girl. Which is why I’m grateful I’m out of Samson’s sight when mine rears, and I trip on a root.
Chapter 9
♥
Question marks and bleeding hearts.
Dear Citrus,
