Well. That’s true enough, I suppose.
And yet.
I whirl, pinning him with a glare.
He jerks to a halt, meeting my displeasure head on.
“Is this going to be my life for the next… however long?” I ask. “Because, I’ll be so honest with you, I cannot handle your constant bad attitude. It’s bumming merightout.”
His stubbled jaw clenches. “I don’t have a bad attitude,” he straight up lies.
“I’ve done nothing but be nice to you today,” I declare. “I offer you good sleep advice. I tell you how handsome you are. I let you gaze upon my beautiful face and experience my sparkling personality. And what do I get in return? Sass! And rudeness!” I tsk.“It’s despicable, Fox. And not at all how a gentleman should treat a lady. For shame.”
His head tilts up to the ceiling, and his chest puffs as he takes a long, deep breath.
I wait, magnanimously allowing him a moment to contemplate my sheer goodness and positive impact it has in his life while I contemplate the alluring line of veins popping on his neck in his agitation. The butterflies and I agree: totally kissable.
“I’m not doing this,” he grunts after a nice, long think about how great I am. His head drops. Goodbye, pretty veins. “I’m putting your crap upstairs, then I’m going to my office to do payroll. You can do… whatever it is that you do before work, so long as you do it away from me.”
Ah. I see. “Of course,” I agree. “I get it. You need more time to marinate on the wonder of me, and it’s hard to fully appreciate me when I’m right in front of you. It’s too much of a good thing,me standing mere feet away.” I sigh and shake my head. “How rude of me not to notice before. This is surely why you’ve been so cranky and mean. You simply can’t handle my presence for this long!”
“I’m ‘cranky and mean’ because my unwanted, uninvited houseguest threw a thirty-pound bag at my head,” he snaps, the drama queen.
“It is not thirty pounds,” I reply.
“It is,” he insists. “And we’re lucky it didn’t break my neck.”
“Seriously, why didn’t you justmove out of the way?”
He scowls.
Officially, I give up. “I’ll take the bag up. You can go straight to your office and infect the air there with your grumpiness. I don’t need this bad energy lingering in the room when I’m sleeping. I have enough of the stuff to contend with already after Inearly diedthis morning, something you seem to have forgotten.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” he says. “It’s just that with my own near-death experience, yours doesn’t seem like that big of a deal anymore.Youhad someone to rescue you.Ihad to handle the trauma on my own.”
I stick out my hand, nose firmly in the air. “My bag, please.”
He spurns my hand, much like I spurn his point. He grunts as he steps around me to head upstairs.
I follow, muttering under my breath about men and their inability to use their ears in conjunction with their brains. By the time we reach my temporary bedroom, my mumbling has increased in volume to become full-blown curmudgeoning. Fox, the man without abilities, ignores me.
Figures.
At least he’s quick about setting my stuff down and leaving, though. I have to hand it to him. I can always count on Fox Blackwood to leave when things get to be too much. It’s what hedoes. Alas for me, these days he always comes back afterward. A pity.
Shaking off his bad attitude cooties, I unpack my bags, filling up the dresser in my temporary room, then moving to the bathroom, where I scooch man things around to fit my own stuff. The medicine cabinet, thankfully, has plenty of room for my toiletries. I only really encounter an issue when I get to the shower.
Shampoos, conditioners, and soaps line every available inch of ledge space, including multiple installed shelves and an over-the-showerhead organizer. Aha. The downside to Fox smelling delicious twenty-four-seven: zero shower space.
I hold my own in-shower necessities up and address the regular residents of the space. “The thing is, I need to put these guys in there with you. Unfortunately for us all, this means making some sacrifices. I apologize in advance for what I must do and what it means for you all. Just remember, it’s nothing personal.”
I immediately make myself a liar, beelining for my least favorite of Fox’s scents—leather manly man something. I shove the offending bottles under the sink, replacing them with my lilac-scented shampoo and conditioner. Locating the matching scent in body wash, I make the switch there, too. Then, I look at the rest of my toiletries bag.
Sure, one could argue that I’ve done more than enough rearranging, what with taking over the medicine cabinet, half the counter, and moving his clearly precious shampoos around. One could even argue that I don’tneedmy exfoliating gloves, deep conditioner, scalp scrubber, foot brush, or waterproof speaker.
One would be wrong.
Shrugging, I eliminate two more scent sets from Fox’s rotation, replacing them with what I consider to be the absolute necessities for any showertime routine. I ignore the squeeze ittakes to get his discarded product under the sink, quickly closing the door and leaving the collapse of it all for him to deal with when next he’s fool enough to open the cabinet.
