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“Duchess, there’s not a fucking ugly thing about you,” he told me, turning to toss the paper towel with my stitches, then putting his kit back together, refusing to look my way at all. “Get dressed. We have a long day. If you own a single thing that doesn’t scream ‘corporate,’ that would be great. We’re gonna be doing a lot of lugging shit around today.”
With that, he left me alone.
I rummaged until I found the most casual outfit I could – a pair of black, wide-leg, linen pants and a plain black and white striped three-quarter-length shirt. I paired it with the only pair of flats I had which were luckily black, tied up my hair, and met him out in the hall after I found he had already tidied my room, left a tip, and repacked my bags.
I grabbed my painting and purse, and followed him downstairs. After stowing my luggage, we had a very awkwardly silent breakfast with me just occasionally trying to remark on mundane things – the food, the weather, the town. I mostly got grunts and one-word answers from him.
“Car first,” he told me, the first time he had strung two words together all morning. “That way, we have two vehicles to jam house shit in.”
It was sounding more and more like a chore by the minute when it should have been something at least a little exciting – setting up my house. Even if the situation wasn’t ideal. I should still have found some small sense of enjoyment in it.
His attitude was just making it impossible.
“Lots of cupholders,” the used car salesman told me gleefully, making my already surly mood sour further. Because the only thing I could have possibly wanted in my car was more cupholders. He also mentioned the lighted mirror. But he talked about the all-wheel-drive and cylinders with Gunner.
It wasn’t a Nevada thing, the thinly veiled sexism.
I had experienced it more than my fair share in the business world. Getting interrupted while in meetings. Being told I was getting emotional when all I was really getting was pissed off because I knew I wasn’t being taken as seriously as some of the suits in the room.
It always grated.
But for some reason, I just wasn’t having it this morning.
“Are you also going to tell me how the steering wheel is nice and thin for my delicate, ladylike hands?” I asked, cutting off his speech about where all six of the cupholders were located. At his dumbstruck look, I could finally see Gunner’s wall falling a bit, his eyes lighting, his lips curving up. “Or how it is an automatic because my feeble lady-brain couldn’t possibly figure out how to drive stick?”
Standing slightly to the dealer’s back shoulder, Gunner raised a hand, curled it into a claw, and made a silent rawr at me.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I didn’t mean to offend.”
Ugh.
A ‘ma’am’ too.
It was that kinda day.
“Alright. Work up the papers. I’ll take it,” I said, waving a hand at the pearl-white SUV that was bigger than anything I had ever driven before, but pristine, had low mileage, and a brand both I and Gunner trusted.
“That was… interesting,” Gunner said when we walked out forty minutes later with the keys in my hand.
“He was being condescending.”
“Yeah, a bit. But you went all ball-buster on him. I’m impressed. It’s rare you lose your cool.”
“I have a short fuse today, it seems,” I said, stopping beside my new car. Which, again, should have filled me with excitement. But, again, just felt like another task checked off a list.
“That’s my warning then, huh?” At what had to be a blank look on my face, he went on, “Not to piss you off.”
“Well, you could certainly try,” I said, smirking a little. “But I think we both know you’re going to fail.”
“Sounds about right,” he agreed, running a hand across the back of his neck. “Alright, so you wanna follow me to the store for furniture?”
“Is this the kind of place where I have to order and wait?”
“Nah. I mean, we can hit one of those up too, but I figure you’d want as much as possible as soon as possible.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I agreed, hopping in my car, waiting for him to get in his, then both of us driving off.
Another bit of distance.
More separation.
It was all becoming very real.
“You’re serious?”
The look of pure, undiluted, masculine disgust was enough to finally lift my ever-falling mood as we stood in the stark lights of a big box store, staring at the living room set on display.
“Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“It’s hard as a fucking rock, for one.”
“And for two?” I asked, knowing that wasn’t all.
“It’s white.”
“It’s cream,” I corrected, running my hand over the streamlined, tufted loveseat.
“You can’t eat or drink anything on it. It will stain if a fucking plain noodle falls on it.”
