“No, that’s my bed.” I cut him off before he could start.
“You don’t even know what I wanted to ask you,” he whispered, amused. Like I didn’t know.
“Can I take a shower?” he asked, pointing at the bathroom in my room.
“I said no.”
I rummaged through the linens to distract myself from his body, which was coming dangerously close to mine.
“I was about to take a knife in the neck for you, and you won’t even let me use the shower?”
At first, I stared daggers at him, then I shook my head in disagreement.
“No, that’s my bathroom. You can shower in the shower stall downstairs.”
“I already went there. It’s cramped. I can’t even fit inside.” He fiddled with the strings on his shorts, getting on my nerves.
“Look, Hunter, I—”
James pulled me toward him quickly and put both hands on my shoulders, making my heart skip a beat. What’d gotten into him now?
“Shh. Let’s call a truce for the night. There are more important things than how much you hate me.”
“You feel it too.” I timidly looked up into his eyes, and threw out that provocation.
“What do I feel?” he muttered under his breath, before letting his gaze drift down my quivering body.
His scent spread under my skin like a permanent memory.
“Um . . . hatred. Toward me.”
He lifted the corner of his mouth in a half smile—the same one he used with any girl at school. Maybe it was his dimples. I had to stop.
“I’m sleeping on the couch. Don’t stress yourself out, Snow White.”
He’d told me loud and clear on multiple occasions that I disgusted him. The other night he was just bored.
But what did those words matter if he then came to me when I really needed him?
“Suit yourself. If you need a clean towel . . .”
James backed away without taking his eyes off me, then put his hand on the edge of his shorts. He stopped talking, staring at me right in the eye, as if that was the most natural thing in the world.
“James!” I shouted, before I realized he was still in his boxers.
“Why are you always so shocked by everything?”
“I’m going to—” I gesticulated nervously.
I felt his gaze on me, but I didn’t have the courage to look at him.
“Aren’t you forgetting the blankets?” he mocked me, amused.
“Yeah.” I groaned, grabbing sheets randomly from my closet.
“If you wanna make yourself a chamomile tea, can you make one for me too?” he asked, laughing. I hated him. Him and his stupid dimples.
“Try not to make too much of a mess. My mom’s not here. If you splatter too much water in the shower, and then I have to clean the glass . . .”
