I mean, who the fuck has someone arrested and then immediately drops the charges just to prove a point? I don't even know what point he's trying to prove here! That he's insane? I already knew that! That he wants to date me? That he's not even remotely close to anything I expected?
I'm losing it. Literally losing it.
It's been three days since he had me arrested, and I'm in a tailspin. I was awake half the nightagain, just replaying the look on his face when he told me that he's serious about me. Part of me wants to fucking run in the opposite direction and never look back. That would be the smart thing to do. But I'm here anyway. Because no one has ever looked at me the way he does. And no one has ever made me feel the way he does, either.
And no one has ever had me arrested and then dropped the charges in some desperate attempt to blackmail me into a date. It's literally the most unhinged thing I've ever even heard.
But I'm here now anyway.
I want answers, dammit.
At least, that's what I tell myself.
I think I know I'm full of shit before I ever ring his doorbell.
I'm absolutely sure I'm full of shit when he pulls the door open, dressed in nothing but a pair of sweats and his glasses, his sweaty hair plastered to his head.
Christ Almighty.
I'm here because, for the last three days, I haven't been able to think of anything except him. I've tried to forget he exists. I've tried to be mad as hell that he had me arrested. I've tried to go about my life like it never happened. Nothing is working.
"Uh…"
"My eyes are up here, princess."
"Yes, but your abs are down here," I mumble, earning a chuckle before he hooks a finger beneath my chin and tips my head back. My eyes lock with his behind his glasses.
"Mighty brave of you to show up on my doorstep again," he murmurs, grinning at me.
"Mighty brave of you to open the door without a bodyguard."
"You here to murder me?"
"Undecided."
"Want coffee while you decide?"
I absolutely, one-thousand percent should not follow this half-naked man into his house.
"Sure."
Look, I didn't say Iwouldn'tfollow him into his house, just that I shouldn't.
He releases me and steps back, waiting for me to follow.
I don't even hesitate.
His house is beautiful, not that I'm really surprised. He kind of seems like the anal retentive, a place-for-everything-and-everything-in-its-place type. The white tile floors gleam in the early morning sunlight. There isn't a single speck of dust on the furniture or hovering in the air. Everything is just crisp, clean, and tidy.
"I'd ask if you're even human, but you're an ass, so I know you are," I grumble, glancing all around. "You could at least leave a pair of dirty socks on the floor to prove it, though, River."
"And spend an entire writing day thinking about the dirty socks on the floor? No, thanks," he chuckles. "If shit isn't where it's supposed to go, I can't focus."
"Of course you can't."
He leads me through the living room into a bright, sunny kitchen. It's bigger than my entire house. It's also stunning, with windows everywhere, overlooking the gardens out back. The scent of brewing coffee fills the entire space.
"Your house is beautiful."
