She finally looked up, thick lashes framing her unimpressed expression. “I told you—I’m not cooking.”
I smirked. “How ‘bout a compromise? I’ll handle the protein, but you do everything else.”
“No thanks.” Rose shot back.
“I thought that was a fair offer.”
She shrugged. “Not really.”
“Then I guess we’re not eating tonight.” As if on cue, my stomach growled.
Pushing off the railing, I headed toward the door. “I’m gonna shower. I’d suggest you do the same—you smell like goats and sweat.”
Rose let out a dramatic sigh. “Wow. What a gentleman. I can’t believe women aren’t lined up at your door, desperate for your compliments.”
I just shrugged, kicking off my boots as I stepped inside. Upstairs, I grabbed clean clothes and headed toward the bathroom, but before I could close the door, I heard her footsteps on the stairs—boots still on.
Then came the yelp.
“Babe, I need help!”
Instinct kicked in. I spun around and rushed into her room. She was sprawled out on the bed, hands covering her face.
“What’s wrong?”
“The boots!”
I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “What about them?”
She peeked at me through her fingers, full-blown panic in her eyes. “Wells, get these claustrophobic things off me!”
I grinned. “Did you just call me ‘babe’?”
She shot upright, glaring daggers. “Get. Them. Off.”
“What’s the magic word, Rose?”
“I’ll kill you!”
I shook my head. “Nope, not it.”
Her nostrils flared. “Wells-whatever-your-middle-name-is Calloway, get these freakin’ things off my feet. Cut them off, I don’t care!”
“I’m not cutting three-hundred-dollar boots, Sunshine.”
“Please get these boots off me!”
“Since you asked so nicely.” I crossed the room and knelt in front of her. With a nod toward her boots, I asked, “May I?”
“Hurry! I think my feet are bleeding.”
“Probably.” I gripped the top of the boot with one hand and braced the heel with the other. “Pull your foot.”
She tried, but the thing wouldn’t budge.
“Try wiggling it.” I instructed.
“It hurts!” she whined, full panic setting in.