That’s right, I paid for it all by myself.
If I were a petty woman, I’d tell him he wasn’t allowed to use it.
He turns away from the coffee and throws open the fridge, the pair of dark shorts he’s wearing slung dangerously low on those cut hips he wields like a weapon.
I’m pissed at him and don’t feel like pretending otherwise. He’s the one who told me to move in, so he gets to deal with my mood.
It’s time he gets a peek behind the curtain. Time Elliott Grant experiences being the brunt of some good, old-fashioned feminine rage.
So yeah, I slam my door closed like a teenager throwing a tantrum. Guess what? It feelsgood.
He smiles at me like we’re not fighting. He doesn’t know I’m mad at him, but he’s about to find out.
I swing open the cabinet door, but before I can lift onto my toes and grab a mug, Mr. Biceps does it for me.
Why is he so stupidly tall? He needs more obvious flaws so my traitorous mind doesn’t keep glossing over them or making up stupid excuses for his terrible behavior that he doesn’t even deserve.
He sets the mug down on the counter, but I don’t thank him, not even when he holds out the coffee pot. I only let him fill my mug because I want to be waited on.
I wait for him to return to his room, but he doesn’t. He eases himself against the edge of the counter and drinks his coffee, smirking in between sips.
Why isn’t he talking? I guess it’s up to me to start this conversation. “I think I need to move out.”
That wipes the smartass look off his face. “Why?”
I don’t owe him an explanation. I don’t owe him anything.
He drags a hand down the back of his neck, looking sufficiently chastised. “Is this about sex bra? Look, I’m sorry I read your messages, but in my defense, the word ‘sex’ has a terrible habit of grabbing my attention.”
I haven’t given his little invasion of privacy a second thought. “This is about you crossing a line. We’re supposed to be friends, and you went and screwed it all up with your…”
His lips twitch, and I despise him a little more.
“Yourmindgames.” Damn hypnotist.
“Mind games? I see. Out of curiosity, what mind games have I been playing?”
“You said you wanted to sleep with me.”
His brows arch beneath his stupidly adorable mop of dark hair. “Did I say that? Wow. That is so shitty of me. I should have lied and said I find you repulsive.”
Wait. So hedoeswant to sleep with me? Not that it matters when he literally had another woman in his bed last night. I’m notthatdesperate. “You shouldn’t have said anything at all.” Then I could still believe this attraction was blissfully one-sided and go about my days searching for Mr. Right instead of obsessing over Mr. Right Next Door.
This ends now.
I yank out my phone, open the first dating app I see, and start swiping. I don’t care who they are. Living, breathing, and single are my only requirements. If they meet those three criteria, I’m going to date them.
“Really mature,” Elliott mutters.
We passed mature the moment he put that damn sock on the damn doorknob.
He sets his mug on the counter. “You’ve made your point.”
Swipe. Match. Swipe. Match.
“Loren. Stop.”
Swipe. Swipe. Swipe. Match.
