If only anyone here cared about such a thing.
Chapter Eleven
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When dealing with an enemy, one should always tell themexactlywhat one thinks about them.
Poem
As much as I hate to admit it, Fox iskind ofright. We have things to do, and prioritizing getting heat into this apartment before the sun sets is pertinent to my survival of the night, not to mention the next few weeks. I shouldn’t put it off.
So, despite the fact that I’d rather tear off my own foot than ever do as Fox bids, I make moves to get myself presentable for the outside world. Quickly shedding his shirt—and shoving it in my bag, because actually that’smyshirt now—I replace my teensy pajamas with a floral midi skirt and a purposefully bedraggled Blackwood Brew tee. I run a brush through my hair, snag my toiletry bag, and wander to the bathroom on pink-socked feet.
I brush my teeth and deposit my toothbrush in the spot next to Fox’s in the worm-eaten apple, then do a minimized version of my skincare and makeup routine with the products provided by my soon-to-be deceased sisters. What am I supposed to do with mascara and a tube of lip gloss? Are they trying to ruin my life?
I make a mental note to grab the rest of my beauty drawer at home, crossing my fingers that it escaped any water damage. I leave the bathroom with a handful of rings and necklaces that I slide on as I join Fox in the main living area.
I approach the kitchen counter and pull out an orange stool, eyes on his tattooed forearm as he reaches into a cabinet forplates. A strand of hair falls over his forehead as he turns toward the stove, lips pursing when an egg makes a particularly dramaticpop.
I sigh, cursing his muscled arm, his strong jaw, and his stupidly luscious hair.
Seriously, who gave him the right to be this attractive?
Andwhy,why,whycouldn’t it have been the kind, sweet, thoughtful twin instead?
I sigh again.
“If you breathe any harder, you’ll put out my flame,” Fox grouches from the gas stove. He flips a pancake—attractively—and I lament the unfairness of life all over again.
“You’re supremely frustrating,” I say.
His shoulders roll, and he flops a pancake onto a plate. “I’m frustrating because I’m making you breakfast?” he asks.
“No. Well, yes, because who could possibly eat this early? But that’s not what my big bad wolf impression was about.”
“Wolfe is big, but I wouldn’t call him bad,” Fox replies by rote. “What have I done to bother you this morning?” he inquires. “Besides saving your life and making you chocolate chip pancakes.”
I perk up. “You didn’t say they were chocolate.”
His back shakes, though his laughter doesn’t hit the air. “Your complaints, kit?”
Have I ever talked to Fox about how annoyingly good-looking he is? I don’t think so. I can’t remember it ever coming up.
I perk. This could be fun, actually. It’s so rare that I find a new way to mess with Fox these days, three years into our… mm… enemy-ship. New contentandmaking the butterflies work in my favor? Yes, please.
Elated, I waste no time in telling him what, exactly, I’m finding issue with this morning. “Your tattoos are hot,” I proclaim.
He stills, a final pancake held aloft on his spatula. Then, an eggpops again, and he moves, hastily dropping the chocolate chip yumminess on a plate and following it with the noisy eggs while I continue my list of his sins.
“The muscles under the tattoos are also a problem. Plus your hair, obviously, and your jawline. Your shoulders. Your back. Your legs. Your chest. Your cheekbones and your nose. Your eyes.” I sigh, beleaguered. “It’s all wildly attractive and wildly inconvenient. I’m bemoaning the fact that Wolfe does not elicit the hormones within me thatyourstupid jerk body does, and it has me huffy.”
He turns off the stove, then faces me. He settles his large, hot hands flat on the counter as he stares at me, unblinking, brows furrowed. “Wolfe and I are identical twins,” he says slowly, almost dragging the words through his lips. “And he has more tattoos than I do.”
My nose wrinkles. “Identical, sure, but notidentical. If you were, I could’ve married him ages ago and joined the family officially.” I shake my head. “Alas, he does nothing for the more base parts of my brain. A real tragedy. And then there’s you, lighting up urges left and right—so long as you don’t speak. Or do anything stupid. Or think anything stupid.” I flutter my lashes, oh-so-sweet.
His cheeks redden, much like last night, and my feet tap happily against the barstool. This really is fun.
His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “You find me attractive,” he states, ears turning a delightful shade of pink. “That’s what you’re saying. You’re attracted to me.”
