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The funny thing is, even with all of this hostility, he doesn’t scare me one bit. I bet he’s a big pussy cat under all this alpha-hole wrapping.
“What’s that look for?” I ask.
“You piss me off.”
“Me?” I point to my chest. “What did I do?”
“You danced with every other bastard in that club and completely ignored me.”
“And?”
“And, I didn’t fucking like it.”
I smile. “Is that so?”
His anger is escalating at my lack of interest in fighting with him. “Yes. That’s so.”
I shrug and walk into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. “Do you want one?”
He follows me in, frowning at me like I’m stupid. “No, I don’t want one.”
I drink the whole large glass of water as he watches. Then I fill my glass again and repeat the process. I hear him sigh when I go to fill my third glass.
“Oh, come on. You can’t be that fucking thirsty.”
I smirk and walk back into my bedroom. He follows me.
“I’m not going to stand around for hours while you dance with other people, you know,” he says with petulance in his tone.
I take my pyjamas out of my drawer, and close it with a slam. “Okay.”
“What does okay mean?”
“It means okay, don’t stand around. Go home. No skin off my nose.”
He narrows his eyes at me and I can see his fury bubbling just beneath the surface. “It’s like that is it? You just don’t give a fuck?”
I walk into the bathroom and he follows me there, too.
“You don’t even give a fuck if I leave right now?” he asks angrily.
I shrug. “You’re a big boy. You do you.”
“Stop being a fucking smartass, Pocket,” he growls.
My eyes snap to him and I shake my head. “No. You don’t get to call me that tonight.”
His tilts his chin to the ceiling. “And why not?”
“Because, Pocket is your pet name for me, and when you’re acting like this and pissing me off, you don’t have a right to make me sound so familiar.”
“So, you are pissed off with me?”
He seems to like the idea that I’m pissed with him. God, he really does want a good fight. Well, he’s not getting one from me.
Is fighting the way he communicates? Hmm. Interesting.
“I never said I wasn’t angry with you.” I squeeze my toothpaste onto my toothbrush and begin to brush my teeth.
“Stop brushing your fucking teeth. I’m in the middle of talking to you.”
I spit my toothpaste in the sink, and I have to stop myself from smiling at his impatience. “Yes. You pissed me off, and maybe next time—if there is a next time— you will dance with me when I ask you to before you lose the chance altogether.”
Our eyes meet in the mirror. “Is that a threat?”
“That’s a promise.” I smile sweetly.
“You think you can actually make me dance with you by threatening me?”
“Do you think you can actually stop me dancing with an ill-timed tantrum?”
“You were dancing with other men. I had every right to get annoyed.”
I screw up my face and spit the water back into the sink before rinsing and putting my toothbrush away. “Shut up, Brock.” I shake my head as I walk back into my bathroom. “We’re not together, and it’s too late for this shit. I’m going to bed.”
He stands and watches me for a moment, clearly confused.
“Turn around,” I tell him.
“What for?”
“Because I’m putting my pyjamas on.” I huff.
“I’ve seen you naked.”
“Not when you’re in time out, you haven’t.”
His face falls for just a second until a small smirk creeps into place. “You’re putting me in time out?”
I nod. “Uh-huh. Turn around.”
He turns his back to me, and I smile and throw my pyjamas over my head.
“For the record,” he says with his back to me. “I decide who is in time out around here.”
“No, you don’t. I’m the boss of us,” I reply calmly.
“What?” His head snaps around, and he looks over his shoulder.
“Turn around.”
“You are not the fucking boss of us, Tully. I’m the boss of us.”
“Nope.” I go to the linen press and take out two blankets. “You are the boss when it comes to the sex between us. You’re the…” I narrow my eyes as I think of the right terminology. “You’re the operations manager. Physical contact is the operations.”
He screws up his face. “And what the hell are you?”
“I’m the general manager.” I smile sweetly. “So, basically, I’m the boss around here, and if you don’t like it, I don’t care.”
I shove the two blankets into his hands.
“What’s this?” He frowns as he looks down at them in his hands.
“Your blankets. You’re on the sofa.”
“What?” He’s outraged that I would even suggest such a thing. “I’m not sleeping on the fucking lounge.”
“Okay. Don’t. Go home.”
He glares at me.
My eyes hold his. “Sleep on the sofa, take your time out like an adult, and tomorrow morning you can take me out for breakfast where, just maybe, we can have a civilised conversation without arguing.”
