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“Don’t eat my falafel wrap,” she says, before drifting off to sleep, and I flop onto my own back, grinning up at the branches.
Eat her wrap? I wouldn’t dare.
After all, my wife is a vengeful little thing.
* * *
Thanks for reading His Last Nerve! I hope you liked it. :)
For another stern man with no idea what’s going on, check outPit Stop.This grumpy billionaire has mistaken my house for a hotel. But hey, who am I to correct him?
And for a bonus instalove story, grab your copy ofRide or Die.She’s sweet and innocent—and that’s like catnip in this strip club. It’s okay, though. I won’t let the pretty bartender out of my sight.
Happy reading!
xxx
Teaser: Pit Stop
“That is unacceptable.”
I think I’ve found Mr Rockwell’s favorite phrase. He’s said it about a dozen times in the last two minutes, and every time he does, I snort a little louder. He glares at me from his spot by the phone, the wire coiled around his tense hand.
I grin back from my seat on the kitchen counter, my heels kicking at the cupboard below. The full glass of water I poured myself sits beside me, sweating in the heat, and every time he stares longingly at it, I get a mean little thrill.
I’ll fetch him his own glass in a second. But waiting a few minutes for once in his life won’t kill him, will it? It’s character-building. Good for his soul.
“Marcel. Listen to me: that isunacceptable.”
Whoever this Marcel is, he’s having a rough day. I stare openly at Mr Rockwell as he lectures the poor man at the other end of the phone, and I can’t help noticing how wildly different we look.
He’s tailored and clean cut. Impeccably dressed and stern, his broad shoulders filling up his corner of the kitchen.
Meanwhile, my lilac shorts are frayed at the hem, and my white t-shirt has a bee embroidered on it. I must seem like an alien to him.
“No. No, I need it fixedtoday.I am in the desert, Marcel. The desert. The place with venomous snakes and cattle skulls. Did you watch cartoons as a child? Are you familiar with the concept?”
Ha. I grin wider, and when our eyes meet, a flash of reluctant humor passes through Mr Rockwell’s expression. I slip down off the counter, bare feet slapping against the tiles, then dig out a glass for him from the cupboard. The faucet creaks, its stream of cool water glittering in the sunshine, and then I cross to him and push the drink into his hand.
The billionaire’s fingertips brush against mine.
He holds my gaze again, green eyes warmer now.
Muffled words crackle through the handset. “I’m listening,” Mr Rockwell murmurs. He raises the glass to his lips, his eyes still on me.
Is it supposed to be sensual, watching someone drink water? Because suddenly I’m flushed under my t-shirt, warm and fidgety on the kitchen tiles. The strong column of Mr Rockwell’s throat bobs with every swallow, and still he watches me. Curious and intense. Like he’d rather drink a nice, tall glass of Keya Patel.
Whew.
He lowers the glass.
His bottom lip is wet.
“Thank you,” he says, and it takes me way too long to realize he’s talking to me. Mr Rockwell nudges the empty glass back into my hand, and I take it, nodding like an idiot. I turn back to the kitchen, dazed.
Jeez Louise. I’ve been out in the wilderness alone for way too long. I’m reading into things—seeing signals that aren’t there. Lusting after a man who’s been nothing but a jerk to me. A man who rich, beautiful women across the world fight over, then come away still single.
How humiliating.
