For several days straight I’ve been making oatmeal for every meal because it’s an obvious way to save money. Thank the fae for shift meals and a barrel of oats, because I don’t have to spend any money on groceries. It all goes back into the house. Though I did splurge a bit to put the NFH on his toes with singing telegrams and cake.
The porridge goes down like bland, thick sludge, and lands like a heavy stone in my gut.
I just need to pretend I’m some adorable orphan on the precipice of a great destiny like Oliver Twist.
Who knows? Maybe I’ve stumbled onto the greatest diet of all time! A month of this and I’ll drop twenty, thirty, or maybe fifty pounds. They’ll call it Goldie’s Porridge Solution. I could get infomercials and sell programs that change everyone’s lives.
My mom’s warning that I tend to obsess and get carried away interrupts my fantasies of being interviewed by Oprah.
Okay, I can admit I get obsessive. And the only thing I’ve been more obsessed about than this house is my neighbor. Admittedly, it started as a genuine attempt to win him over, but it devolved into blatant attempts to yank his chain. I itch to do it again, even now.
But then there he was at my doorstep. Angry, shoulders heaving, as he bared down on me. Electricity raced through my veins. I’d forgotten how tall and broad he was. Even in his anger, the blue-black curls that fell over his forehead softened his rugged features, making him more alluring. Again, in that strong mountain man kind of way that suggested he might pin me against the wall and swat my behind.
And then a spark sizzled in my lower belly, signaling that I really didn’t hate that idea as much as I should.
My heart had raced as I stared up at him, feeling alive in a way I hadn't in so long. Was it anger? And since when did anger cause me such a rush of desire that made my knees weak? I could feel the heat radiating off him and the way he towered over me made me feel small and vulnerable. But the full force of his scowl directed straight at me devastated me in a way I couldn’t explain. Like I was the center of his whole universe and nothing else mattered.
These are the thoughts of a crazy person.
At least, I know it.
For faefucks sake, I have to pretend I didn’t rifle through his mail to learn his name. It still bothers me he wouldn’t just introduce himself like a normal person.
But again, he’s so different from how the men at the bar who wax poetic about me and vie for my attention. There is something so real and intense about the NFH that I can’t shake.
But it’s all over. We called a truce, and there’s no reason to see him again. Not that I want to. Not that he deserves another second of my time.
I set the empty bowl into the sink with a hollow clang of ceramic. Gods this house is way too big for one person.
By the time I find my way to bed, I'm completely drained. The bedding is cold, the room filled with the weight of the day. The whispers of the old house seem to echo my confusion. Why does someone so distant elicit such intense emotions? Why, when surrounded by admirers, am I so consumed by the one person who seems indifferent?
But blissful sleep takes a while to come when I can’t stop thinking about my neighbor’s cold eyes and confusing demeanor.
At some point between worrying I’ll never fall asleep and if this entire endeavor is an absolute failure before I've started, I drift off.
It’s only when a warm arm encircles me do I start to wake again. It takes a full minute before I realize that I went to sleep alone.
This bed is too soft. Why is the mattress sagging underneath me? I move my leg but it doesn’t find the edge of the bed like usual. The mattress keeps going.
I blink my eyes a couple times, coming to the slow and horrifying realization that this isn't my bed, and there is a man snuggled up to my side. A chill runs down my spine. My breathing becomes erratic, each inhalation shaky and tinged with the taste of fear.
Early dawn peeks through shiny silver window treatments. Deep purple silk sheets surround me, and they stink of cologne and sex. My hand covers my mouth and nose to dampen the powerful punch.
My heart feels like it's about to explode from my chest. I mentally scramble, trying to piece together the puzzle. Was I drugged? Abducted? Assaulted? Everything feels fine in my coochie realm, but does that really mean anything? Though my pajamas remain untouched, cold dread continues its death grip on me.
Even as I extract myself from under a lanky male arm I don't recognize, every worst-case scenario races through my mind, each more terrifying than the last.
Regardless of how it happened, I need to get the hell out of here. The man on the bed is long and lanky with a full head of long dark hair. I can’t see his face, but I don’t think I recognize him. The bed is massive, if broken and saggy, to accommodate a frame that is probably just under seven feet. I’d remember a giant of my acquaintance.
The only guy similar in size to this behemoth is my NFH, but I can tell at a glance this isn’t my neighbor. Not enough broad shoulder, or barely restrained anger.
I slink out from the rank, sex-soaked bed. I can't see the man's face and can only tell he has dark hair and snores like a chainsaw.
I take a step and the wood betrays me, its loud creak a death knell in the tense silence. I hold my breath, praying he remains asleep. The pounding in my chest feels deafening in the stillness.
Don’t wake up, don’t wake up.
His sudden movement nearly sends me into cardiac arrest. But then he grabs a pillow and draws it into his body before falling back into a rhythm of steady snores. I let out a shaky breath I hadn’t realized I'd been holding.
