“I've been busy.”
He scoffs, “You’re a terrible liar.”
“Not lying,” I shrug. “Avoiding you is a full time gig.”
That gets an eye roll from him. Rather than indulge my bullshitting, he lifts his arms to emphasize the plastic bags in his hands.
I blink at him, unimpressed.
“Food, because you look like you’re about to pass out,” he says, swinging one bag then rattling the other. “Tools to get your fancy doorbell working.”
“You know why I got it in the first place, right?” I'm given a deadpan stare. I scowl. “And I’m not hungry.”
My stomach chooses that precise moment to grumble loudly.
Win nods with feigned reverence. “I see. I guess I’ll have to eat this sushi all by myself…”
I’m going to murder him. Maybe choke him to death by shoving those sushi rolls in his mouth all at once. Or drill between those indecently expressive eyes.
“Not a chance. We’re doing the doorbell first.”
I snag the bag of tools—
The handles are twinned around his fingers. I stumble forward, tangled in plastic and Win.
The intoxicating scent of his cologne slaps me in the face. Musky and woodsy and mouthwatering.
I rear back, spinning—
And grab the door frame before crashing to the ground.
“Yeah, we’re eating first,” he snaps.
“I don’t need to be coddled, asshole.”
My stomach groans like a lonely phantom.
A plastic bag stuffed to the brim with white foam takeout boxes smelling of soy sauce, smacks my chest. I think I’m drooling. Reflexively, I cradle it.
“Preventing you from fainting and cracking your pretty head open isn’t coddling, sunshine,” he retorts, backing me into the apartment where I’ve been holed up like a hibernating bear for the last two days. It’s a fucking disaster.
But all my stupid brain can focus on is the ridiculous nickname.
“Don’t call me that,” I hiss.
He ignores me, plopping the bag on the cluttered counter where my laptop sits amid a shrine of unopened textbooks, dirty plates and half-empty energy drinks.
His attention is stolen from the mess by a chorus of excited chirps.
A ball of grey, black and white fur ambushes the tattooed stalker in my kitchen while I stand there with an armful of sushi boxes. Win catches Mitz mid-leap, a breathtaking smile overtaking his face.
I’ve been tasered. Or shot. Actually, both.
“Well, hello there, sweet thing. What’s your name?” Win coos, cuddling my fucking cat in his defined arms. (I’m not staring at them.)
“Her name is Mitz and she’s a goddamn traitor,” I mutter, busying myself with clearing shit off the counter. Dishes clatter in the sink. Aluminum cans clang in the trash. Textbooks thump in a stack. Nothing drowns out Win’s giddy murmuring to Mitz.
“You want some sushi too?” he continues to my cat who purrs loud enough to rival an engine.
