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After that, I went up to the room and cried the day away.
Once I was done, I pulled out my phone and looked up gardening stores in the area and if they delivered. Turns out, there is a gardening store in Pike’s Peak that does deliver, and they had everything I needed. So I had them deliver some stuff to the bar, which I told Billy about with another note that I quickly left at the same place before the bar opened for the day.
A day later, here I am.
In his dead garden with all the supplies I need to grow him the roses. Once I’m done planting the new flowers for him, then I’ll leave.
I know, I know I said I wouldn’t be mad at him but screw him.
He’s not the boss of me.
If I want to learn how to grow roses on the internet, I’ll do it. If I want to use my newly-acquired knowledge and clear out the dead bushes, turn the freaking soil, dig a twelve-inch hole and add peat moss to it, I will fucking do that too.
I stab the shovel in the ground with a grunt. “Stupid, freaking jerk.”
Another stab. “Asshole.”
Stab number three and a kick, and I lower my voice and imitate his tone. “‘Were you going to remember it the next day? It was a game, wasn’t it? It could’ve been anyone.’ Yes. It could’ve been anyone, Mr. Edwards. It could’ve been the whole fucking neighborhood. What, you thought you were special? You’re not special. You were never special. Never.”
I kick at the ground again and the dirt goes flying. “Do you see how special you are, now? Do you?”
I raise the shovel high up and smash it back into the earth. “‘I eat girls like you for breakfast.’ Oh please. As if.”
“Are you trying to murder the ground?”
His groggy voice pierces through my anger and I whirl around.
I shouldn’t have.
Or maybe I should’ve taken a little time to control my raging emotions and then turned around and looked at him.
Because he’s not wearing a shirt.
Oh my God, he’s not wearing a shirt.
The only thing he has on is a pair of plaid pajama bottoms that look old and worn and so comfy. The hem of them is grazing his bare feet.
Such a non-threatening picture. Old pajamas, bare feet, sleepy voice.
Such a freaking lie.
“Only because I can’t get to my actual target right now,” I reply.
“And who’s your actual target?”
I flex my grip on the shovel. “People call him The Beast.”
“Yeah? Sounds dangerous.”
“He used to make students cry back at my school. Everyone hated him.”
“Everyone’s smart.”
“Oh, and he eats girls like me for breakfast.”
“You should probably stay away, then.”
“I should.” I raise the shovel and kind of wave it. “But I have this, remember? And I know how to use it.”
“Clearly.”
When all the words run out between us and silence descends, I can’t ignore the elephant in the space.
Or The Beast.
The Beast who’s not wearing a shirt.
I can see every ridge and groove of his upper body. The tight slabs of his pecs and rigid slopes of his sides.
Not to mention, I can see the hair on his chest, a light smattering at first, but then thickening and darkening as it goes down and becomes a furry trail around his belly button, that disappears under the waistband of his pajamas.
It kills me. It literally kills me how sexy it is, his chest hair. How appealing.
More appealing than the veins going up and down on his arms and that bulge in his bicep when he raises that arm and glugs something down from a bottle.
He does it all with his eyes on me and…
Hold on a second.
He’s drinking from a bottle? Again?
“Is that…” I squint. “Is that whiskey?”
“Scotch,” he corrects me, taking another sip of it, like that’s what’s important.
“But it’s like, first thing in the morning.”
“So?”
I stick the shovel into the ground and rest my elbow on it. “So, people drink coffee in the morning. Or juice.”
“I don’t like juice.”
“Well, there’s always coffee.”
“Don’t like coffee either.”
“That’s such a lie. You like coffee.”
“Really?”
“Uh-huh. You like it black.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You also wake up really early in the morning.”
“Do I?”
“Yes. I used to live next door to you, remember? So I know. You used to wake up at four or something. It’s not four now.”
Nope, it’s not.
It’s like, after eleven, and I’ve never seen him sleep this late.
“So you do know how to tell the time. Your babysitter will be pleased.”
I scoff. “Of course. How did we go so long without you making a crack about my age? But I guess it helps you sleep at night. So sure, let’s call my imaginary babysitter and tell her the good news. But only after you tell me why you’re drinking when you’ve just woken up? Late, no less.”
