My face flames red, and mortification claws up my gut. The man is always playing Chess, and I’m over here losing at Checkers.
I lift my gaze, my mouth dropping in indignation… Anything to not feel the humiliation of being busted when he freaking winks. Again.
Grrrr.
“We said no growling, didn’t we?” His voice is chipper and annoying. “Wow. A broken rule already.”
“There are no consequences set forth. This is a mulliford.” I lift my chin.
“Mulligan. And it’s offendee’s choice. I break your rule, you set the penalty. Since you broke mine, I need to think of what I want as payback.”
“This sucks.” I stare at him, willing him to break under my ire.
“It was your idea.” His stare down is much more effective.
“So?”
He out-and-out laughs at me.
Not with me. At. Me.
I growl again before throwing my hand over my face and walking away.
“That’s two more,” he yells as the drill whirls again.
I can’t go anywhere or do anything now. Walking away gets me who knows what? But staying guarantees I’ll screw up.
The growling thing was for him. How does he not get that? It wasn’t for me. I don’t growl. Gritting my teeth and making a noise isn’t anything like the feral noise he makes.
Offendee’s choice? Isoffendeeeven a word? What will he choose? He won’t make me cook and clean, will he? Or wash and polish his car? Does he ever drive that thing?
He must. There’s no way he rides his motorcycle in the snow and ice. Ooh, that gives me a great idea. When he breaks my rules, I’ll have him take my Accord. It was a sensible choice when I graduated high school, and my dad was generous in giving it to me. St. Louis winters weren’t too different from those in Peoria, overcast and gloomy. The dreary gray was enough to make me want a tropical vacation, but ice was infrequent and there were alternatives to getting to school if I had to.
Who’s a badass, now, Liam Murphy? I can and will get more creative as time rolls on.
When I’ve hidden as long as I can, I return to find my front door closed and latched, with a new deadbolt and a new something else up top. My back door is ajar but has a hole I can see straight through where the lock used to be.
Did that man leave me here with the door wide open and my home this easy to break into? Not cool. I’m on my way to give him what-for when I see movement near my garage. The man in question examines the door from my outbuilding and frowns.
“What’s wrong?”
His head pops up before he stalks my way, getting into my space. “Ready for your punishment?”
What in the peanut butter balls is he talking about?
“No?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“Telling?”
His chest brushes mine as he leans down, blocking the sunlight that streams around him. “Put on shoes. We need to run an errand.”
I shrug and head for my bedroom for shoes and to brush my hair. If this is what I get for breaking three—but really, only two count—rules, I can handle this. Bounding back to the kitchen, I grab my purse, but my keys are nowhere to be seen.
He locks my back door handle and the newly installed whatever that is on the top of the door and leads me to the front door. He opens it, allowing me to go first, and pulls the door behind me, pressing a button on the new deadbolt that whirls as it locks in place.
We finally make it to his garage where he jumps in the big black box of a vehicle, and we set off after he presses buttons on his phone.
