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And sure enough, the moment I release him, his nails start clacking on the floor again as he takes off for the entryway and his mistress and…
Stuffs his nose in that bag of food.
“I need a rug,” I say, moving toward her and bending down to nudge Steve back, to grab the bag with the rest of his things—bowls and chew toys and what appeared to be a year’s supply of kibble and treats when I peeked inside earlier—scooping it up, and hanging it on my shoulder.
She doesn’t move, just watches me with wide eyes, so I bend again, snagging her arm, helping her up to her feet, and drawing her away from the mess at the door. “Feed the tiny demon,” I say, passing her the bag and snagging the towel from her grip. “I’ll finish up here.”
“You went out in the Snowmageddon and got Steve’s food.”
I nudge her toward the kitchen. “Yeah, butterfly, but that doesn’t matter. Steve’s hungry.”
A woof from our feet.
I look down and see Steve sitting like the good boy he isn’t, pleading puppy eyes on us, expression saying, “Yes, I am very, very hungry. Starving even.”
“I don’t understand,” she whispers.
“It’s not complicated,” I say, starting to feel a little impatient.
Something she picks up on because her eyes start to clear and she shakes her head slightly. “You went and got Steve’s food.”
I pass her the bag, table the impatience, even though part of me hates that she’s clearly surprised. Is it because I went and did something that can be construed as nice—that she’s shocked I can stop being an asshole for a minute? Or is it that she can’t believe someone would do something nice for her?
Considering what assholes her ex and sister are, that can also be playing into her reaction.
But I don’t want to think about that.
“Tiny demons have to eat too,” I tell her.
She blinks, shakes herself again, but then proves she can take it on the chin with the best of them, her fingers wrapping around the bag, her shoulders straightening. “Steve is not a demon, tiny or otherwise.”
My mouth hitches up. “Just a pervert?”
Her eyes narrow and she flounces off toward the kitchen. “Rude.” A glare over her shoulder, lips twitching. “Chop. Chop. Get to cleaning.”
“Maybeyou’rethe tiny demon,” I say, shaking out the towel.
“Maybe you’re the large one.”
The other half of my mouth curves, and I grab both ends of the towel, start rolling it.
She’s in the kitchen now, but she doesn’t miss what I’ve done. “Don’t you d-dare,” she sputters.
“What?” I ask, prowling toward her. “Punish you for your insolence?”
“No,” she squeaks as I let the towel shoot out with a sharpcrack.“You’re supposed to clean up the water while I feed Steve.”
“Hmm.” I set the towel on the counter, lean back against it, very much in her space and not giving a damn. “I don’t think that’s a fair trade. After all”—I shift toward her, so close that our bodies are pressed together from thigh to shoulder, so close I’m able to feel her arm move against mine as she fills Steve’s bowl with food—“you’re the one who crushed me.”
Her head whips toward mine, eyes flashing. “I didn’t mean to crush you. I was trying to help you when you fell.”
A beat, trying to keep my amusement out of my words. “And how do you explain your little demon dog trying to claw me to death?”
Her eyes narrow. “Steve was worried, you—you…annoying…annoyer.”
I freeze, brows drawing together.
Then laughter bubbles up in my chest, dances across my tongue, explodes out of my mouth.
