Inwardly, I sighed.Shit show supervisor reporting for duty.“I must be a museum exhibit with the way you’re staring,” I groused, not even opening my eyes.
“Have you ever refused a job?”
My eyes flew open. “What?”
“Have they ever asked you to kill someone and you said no?”
“I haven’t even had any coffee yet,” I complained, scrubbing a hand over my face.
“I’ll make you some,” Haz volunteered, sliding out of bed before I could stop him. “Are you allowed to turn down a job, or is that, like, forbidden?” He wondered. “I really need to get some clothes,” he jabbered on. “Yours are nice, but they’re too big.”
He disappeared into the bathroom and came back a few minutes later, buttoning one of my fresh shirts. This one was blue.
If you asked me, the clothes he wore around here were just fine.
“I hope you don’t have one of those fancy coffee machines because I don’t know how to work them,” he prattled from the foot of the bed and then turned to go.
Yelling, I leaped up. “Hazard!”
If he broke my espresso maker, I didn’t care how cute he looked in my clothes. There’d be hell to pay.
After pulling on a pair of gray sweatpants, I stormed from the bedroom, expecting to find my two-thousand-dollar Breville on fire. It might have been less than a minute, but I had every faith a little hazard like him could manage it.
A horrible squeal, followed by a dragging sound, had me practically running.See?Walking chaos.
“What in the hell are you doing?” I asked, expecting to find him in the kitchen with a destroyed appliance in his fist, but no, he wasn’t even in the kitchen.
He was dragging a barstool from the island into the living room.
He barely paused as he continued to haul it across my custom flooring. “I promised Cliff and Atlas I’d find them a new home.”
My eye twitched. “And why do you need the barstool in my living room for that?”
The abuse to my floor stopped, and Haz glanced over his shoulder. I’m sure he was looking at me, but his hair was so wild it obstructed the view.
“Do you ever brush your hair?” I inquired.
He shrugged. “Not since I lost my hairbrush.”
A strained sound ripped from my throat. “You lost your brush?”
“Probably going to be even harder to find now with the state of my apartment,” he answered, going back to dragging the stool.
“Hazard.”
He stopped again. “Do you have a plant stand?”
“No.”
“Another reason you’re a terrible plant daddy.”
One of the legs got caught on the living room rug, and he nearly pitched forward. I stood there gaping as he got into a literal tug-of-war with the rug over the chair.
The shirt he wore wasn’t buttoned to the top, and in his fight, it slid to the side, revealing his creamy shoulder marked with my hickey. Seeing that mark had my groin tightening and thoughts of last night filling my head.
Haz cried out and pulled his bandaged hand back.
Forgetting sex, I strode across the room and plucked the stool off the ground completely and turned to go put it backwhere it belonged.
