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I stripped and slumped into the shower stall, submersing myself under the wide rainfall showerhead and letting the hot water pound down on my shoulders. The upbeat dance music didn’t have Henry Cavill’s desired effect the way it normally did. I was perfectly capable of sulking despite the magnetic beat.
“Play ‘This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things’ by Taylor Swift,” I called over the sound of the pounding water.
“Playing ‘Roar’ by Katy Perry,” he replied calmly.
I sighed. The computer knew me well. Within minutes, I was bellowing along with the song, feeling empowered and determining I wasn’t going to obsess over Jasper Huxley anymore. I had a job to do, and I was quickly becoming an integral part of the team. Plus, I had a full docket of my own projects today, which had nothing to do with Champion Security.
Eye of the tiger. Katy had it right when she belted out that song. I needed focus.
This attraction… thing with Hux was nothing more than a distraction, just like he’d said in the club last night. We’d had a brief moment of adrenaline-fueled lust the other day, followed by a moment play-acting on an op, and… and, okay, one really sweet, unguarded moment with a leather jacket. In between, though, Hux had done his best to ignore me. So I was going to force myself to do the same.
As I dried off, completed my skincare regimen, and finger-combed some product into my hair, I told Henry to read my latest Horn of Glory messages.
“Yes, sire. First message, from Anomaly451. Received, 6:26 p.m. Yesterday. ‘Hello, sweetness. I hope you’re not still upset. I wish we could be together right now. I can’t wait to see you in Vegas.’ Would you like to reply?”
I sighed, feeling a tangled web of guilt and annoyance tighten around me. If the man was my boyfriend, it was wrong that I hadn’t even thought of him while losing myself in Hux’s kiss the night before. Then again, Adam hadn’t been acting like much of a boyfriend this week, when I hadn’t immediately agreed to an alliance or to meet up for sex.
But maybe he was having a bad week. Maybe the article he was writing was more stressful than he’d let on. Maybe he’d gotten caught in DC traffic. Maybe the real problem was that I wasn’t great with people or relationships.
Which is why the first person you’ve developed a major, monster, take-me-right-now crush on is a guy who spends his days finding inventive ways to insult you and trolling you in Horn of Glory.
I blew out a breath. “Yes, please reply. Say, ‘I’ll definitely see you in Vegas. We can talk after the tournament. When do you arrive?’”
There. That was nice. Appropriately friendly without implying the kind of commitment that would make me feel even guiltier if I accidentally jacked off to thoughts of Jasper Huxley again.
“Message sent,” Henry announced.
“Great. Is, um… is there any message from SmittyKitty?”
“No, sire. SmittyKitty has not logged in since Wednesday when he read your last message. Would you like to send him a new message?”
Henry Cavill sounded vaguely disapproving of this idea. I didn’t blame him.
“No, thanks,” I said glumly.
It wasn’t like I’d expected the man to drop to his knees in gratitude at the offer of an alliance or whatever… but I hadn’t expected him to drop off the face of the planet either. We’d gotten to be friends, or so I’d thought.
I needed another round of Katy Perry, stat.
“Thank you, Henry,” I concluded. “You can—”
“Next message, from HogMasterHux. Received, 3:47 a.m. Today. ‘There. Now you can stop complaining. This time, think up a better name for it.’ Would you like to reply?”
Hux had messaged me?
What did he mean, a better name?
I grabbed my Horn and logged in for the first time since hopping a plane to Miami the day before, and the moment my avatar appeared in front of my homestead, I understood what Henry was talking about.
There was a golden duck on my front porch—the larger, rarer, and far more expensive cousin to my bronze goose, Jaunty, that Hux had done away with the previous summer. A golden duck increased your health and happiness points exponentially, and there were only a few in existence, so Hux must’ve called in a bunch of favors to make this happen.
But… why? What the hell did it mean? Was it a friendship sort of duck? Or a courtship sort of duck? Or a “Hey, sorry I gave you a giant boner last night—oh, and the night before—but I don’t actually find you all that attractive, so have this duck in lieu of hot sex, you giant loser,” sort of duck?
Interpersonal relationships had a language I hadn’t heard spoken often enough to become fluent, and as far as I knew, there was no translation app available. I could maybe ask Carter if he was around later. He was smart about this stuff.
