“Huh?”
“Arms,” he says again smiling while I stand there fighting the urge to pounce on him. He looks good enough to eat. His hair’s tussled from sleep, and he’s barefoot and wearing a pair of low-slung jeans, his boxers peeping out just above the waistband. His chest still bears the yellowing bruises from the crash, but they don’t detract from the tanned smooth skin stretched over the peaks and dips of his abs. I could stand here and stare at his torso all day without tiring.
“Lift your arms, babe!”
“Oh, right…yeah. Sorry.”
He pulls the t-shirt over my head and then looks down at my jeans. They look like a poorly executed Jackson Pollock imitation; dirty, soggy, dark splat marks cover a good proportion of blue.
“Take them off; I’ll put them in the wash.”
I hesitate for a second but figure that if he washes my clothes it will give me at least an hour to try and reason with him before he can throw me out. I mean, heck, he wouldn't toss me outside without any clothes…hopefully.
“Okay,” I tell him, peeling the damp material down my legs. I look up and catch his eyes watching me. I figure now’s as good a time as any to talk.
“Ethan, I wanted to—”
“Not now.” He holds his palms up and cuts me off immediately, obviously knowing where I was intending to take the conversation.
“Fine, here.”
I let the denim drop to my feet, and then kick my jeans up at him. He catches them with a crooked grin before disappearing out of the room again.
I walk around his bedroom looking at the knickknacks spread out over his dresser. I take a guitar pick and move it between my fingers before setting it back down. I pick up a ratty old notebook and flip to where the page marker is. It’s music. Like real notes, not just letters and words. I smile, a weird sense of pride swelling in my heart. Then I notice the title: Rescued By a Princess, and I can't help but wonder if he’s referring to me.
I look down at myself, and decide that his t-shirt is just about long enough to get away with wearing downstairs since it falls marginally below my ass; arguably I’m covered up.
“You okay in there?” I shout as I make my way to the laundry room.
“Stupid…shitty...annoying door. Argh!”
I lean on the doorframe and smile as I watch Ethan pressing every available button while simultaneously yanking on the machine door with no avail. Our clothes are piled at his feet, and I let out a small giggle as he kicks the side of the washer then hops and grabs at his toes. He lets out a string of expletives that run from one to the next in one long cuss.
“Shitfuckerassholepissingcocksuckingdouchenozzle!”
I throw my head back and release a completely undignified snort as he whirls around and narrows his gaze.
“I’m glad my pain amuses you.”
I want to try to smooth my features, but holding in my amusement is harder than I thought. I’m straining the muscles in my face with the effort to get my words out without collapsing into hysterics.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing? Trying to get this damn machine to open so I can wash our stinking wet clothes!”
“Oh.” A small giggle escapes me and his gaze narrows further. I scoot past him and press the power switch illuminating all the buttons and then press ‘Door’. It pops open, and I turn and smile.
“Always helps if you have the thing turned on first.”
“Pfft, whatever. This is a chick’s job anyway.”
The amusement I was feeling is instantly replaced with a sudden urge to junk-punch him.
“Aw, poor Ethan…in a mood because he couldn’t figure out the washer?” I mock in my sweetest baby voice.
I don’t get to enjoy the expression he pulls because I’m instantly hit in the face with a pile of dirty socks and boxers.
“Ew…that’s gross; you’re such a moron! You’d better run.”
He laughs until he registers that I’m not joking. His hands fly up to his chest, palms facing up as he takes a step backward.
“It was a joke…Blair, don’t you dare!” His voice has lowered to a warning as he watches the box of soap powder I’m poised to throw.
“What was that? Did you just dare me?”
“Okay, okay…I’m sorry, put the box down. I shouldn’t have thrown my dirty laundry at you. Tossing a box of suds at me is only gonna…”
I smile triumphantly as he’s covered with a heavy dousing of powder before he finishes his sentence. He coughs and shakes his head, causing a flurry of tiny white flakes to tumble from his hair and shoulders like a little snowstorm.
“Mature!” he spits out.
“Hey, you started it, mister.”
He rubs his hand over himself, trying to dust down, and I grin.
“Truce?”
“Not even close. I’ll get you back, just wait.”