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I ease away, glad when nothing else comes tumbling down. “You trying to get all of this out, or anything specific?”
“Just a few little things. The electric hot pot, the toiletries in this bag here—” She reaches past me and snags a bloated plastic bag sporting the logo for a little locally owned bed and bath boutique that prides itself on handmade soaps and fragrances. Then she snags something else, but I don’t get to see what it is before it hits the ground.
A slender box busts open.
Out rolls a purple fucking vibrator.
I must be grinning like a lunatic.
Delilah stares in horror, her eyes wide and glassy. She’s just waiting for me to skin her alive with all the smart-assed remarks hanging on my tongue.
“Um...” she stammers, frozen in place, straining to clear her throat.
“You dropped this,” I growl, forcing back every last shitty, teasing comment I want to make.
I just sweep down, pick it up along with the box, and pass them back to her.
Don’t know how I ignore the fact that this could’ve been inside her days ago. I don’t have enough wits to look closely and figure out if it’s brand new.
Her brows almost fly right off her face.
I’m not sure who’s more surprised that I’m skipping out on giving her hell about it.
Pity.
Still, my eyes linger on the toy as she brushes her long hair back from her blushing face and shoves it back into the bag. “Um, if you wouldn’t mind getting the hot pot? I don’t want to knock anything else over trying to get at it...”
Just like that, we pretend to have a normal interaction.
I’m not daydreaming about her pressing that little bullet between her legs and coming fireworks.
She’s not flushing a dozen kinds of red, knowing that I know what she fucks herself with.
I’m not mentally counting a hundred ways I could make her come so much harder.
I half expect her to rip my head off just for staying quiet—and for being tall enough to reach the top of her stack.
“Since you asked so nicely. Glad you saved the bigger armful for me.” I smirk at her slit-eyed fuck-you look. Then I catch the box with the hot pot and tuck it under my arm. “Anything else, boss lady?”
She snorts. “No. I don’t think so.”
She loops her bag over her arm and stretches up on her toes to grab the Kia’s hatch, giving me a view of her tanned stomach as her shirt lifts. All while the thin tank top pulls just a little too tight against her breasts.
Stop frigging looking.
I damn near have to grab my own head and twist around to jerk my gaze away, looking at the fence for the B&B instead while she slams the hatch shut.
“Lead the way,” I say.
“You don’t have to,” Delilah protests. “The box isn’t that heavy. I can carry it from here. I just couldn’t reach it.”
“Then how’re you going to open the door to your room?” I shrug. “Like you said. It’s not that heavy. I’ve got it.”
“There’s this thing called a floor, Officer. You can set stuff down to free your hands for things like, oh, keys,” she says in her most sarcastic tone.
“You think you’re funny? There’s something called muscle so you don’t have to waste time.”
“Whatever you say, Hercules.” She rolls her eyes and nods, smiling all the while.
I don’t like the little pang that shoots through me. Because her smile came a lot easier when Ulysses Arrendell was helping her out.
Is that why I’m all goddamned prickly with venom?
I’m nursing a crush like a damn boy who got a peek in the girl’s locker room, and now I’m getting all jealous 'cause she likes the dude who smiles at her instead of the jackass who pulls her pigtails?
Grow the hell up, man.
Blame the Emma Santos case for demolishing my head—or that purple little rocket I bet makes her a screamer.
She turns to lead me inside the gate, up the walk, and into the cool shaded interior of the B&B. We trudge upstairs to her room. There’s a second of hesitation before she unlocks the door with another guarded expression.
What does she see when she looks at me?
I’ve never met a girl who’s so hard to read.
So hard to know if she hates me constantly, likes me for a minute every two hours, or just feels completely indifferent.
At least I can tell when I’m irritating the hell out of her.
I can’t help it. I’m not good at small talk.
It’s either straight facts or I find a way to fill the silence with a dumbass joke, but I guess some folks don’t like that small-town sense of humor.
She doesn’t stop me from following her inside.
The room’s a suite, decorated cottage style with ruffles and doilies everywhere in Janelle’s homey style. The door leading into the bedroom is closed but the living and kitchen area look pretty comfortably lived in.
