She gets my truth, and I get to see who she really is at a depth that will allow me to make an educated decision on whether or not I’d like to marry her, assuming she does get past this period wherein she seems quite willing to castrate me.
While I’m mulling about in my anxiety, a store associate approaches us. “Anything I can help the happy couple find?” she asks.
Out for blood, sweet and cute little Mirabelle snaps, “We’re not dating!”
I brace my hand on her shoulder, in case she tries to bite the poor associate, and say, “No, thanks. We’re just looking.”
“R-right. Well, let me know if you need anything. I’ll just be…” She points. Far, far away. “Over there.”
This is going…great.
“Precious,” I say, “it’s not nice to snap at service workers.”
Mirabelle pales, then she covers her face with her hands. “Ugh.I’mnot nice, Mr. Anders.”
“Damion.”
She square punches me in the arm and seethes. “I’m going to go apologize.”
I rub my arm, because a woman who cooks and cleans all day has amarvelousleft hook. “Okay.”
“You’regoing to stay here.”
I deflate. “But I want to hear what insults you use to describe me when you explain why you’re so testy this lovely afternoon.”
Her nostrils flare.
I dip my head, hiding my smile. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be good and stay put.”
Her nose wrinkles. “Donotcall mema’am.” She spins on her heel before I can use that sweet little comment to make an argument on why I’d like for her to stop calling mesir, but she’s gone too fast. It is such a good thing we brought my car, because I have a feeling she’d try and make a break for it if she had the keys.
Sighing merrily, I watch her. As it turns out, I…am deeply in love. Still. Continuously. Ireallylike her. She’s a little rabid when she’s not hiding behind what she thinks other peopleexpect from her, but it’s nice; it makes it feel like she won’t break in my hands. For all her soft and reserved edges, she’s strong, determined, andstubborn.
I am terrified I’ll mess up, but I am now less concerned I’ll do somethingwrong. If I get too close and she doesn’t want me to, she will hit me. The end.
There’s a weird sort of peace in that—in knowing that even though she’s a petite woman and I’m a large man, she’s not going to let me pressure her accidentally into anything she’s not comfortable with.
She returns, and I ask, “Did you swear when you described me?”
Her eyes roll. “No. Swearing is bad.”
“Isn’t hitting also bad?”
She glares at me, lip jutted.
Tempting.
Since I’m being honest and all, I reach for her chin, tip that pouting lip up, and lean.
She shoves me into the rustling plasticky hanging clothes. Breaths hard, she watches me as I regain the step I lost to her violence and dust off my shirt. Her shoulders bunch, and her fingers close. “S-sorry. You… We’re in public. You were joking. That was a bit, not an actual…”
“I wasn’t joking. Not at all.”
Eyes large, she stares, then sucks in a breath. Placing her arms at her sides, she whispers a concerning, “I think I need a taser…”
I think I needed more terms and conditions outlined in our honesty agreement. Particularly,no zapping me with a taser.
Given that she’s yet to have a taser, I get back on task and say, “Damion.”
