“Guess he didn’t mention it, huh?” He stepped closer and exhaled. “Look, I’m just trying to help. Grab what you need then I’ll follow you to the station. We’ll fill out the paperwork.”
She remembered her appointment with her mom’s lawyer. “I can’t.” Moving to the closet, she pulled out her small black suitcase and a couple of outfits. His dead-on stare followed her. Nervous, she started picking up panties and bras scattered around the room. Instantly, her chest became crowded with too many emotions. Her apartment was a mess. Her life was a mess. And Mr. Looking-Good-in-Leather treated her as if was all her fault. And, yeah, part of it was.
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Does it matter?” she asked, feeling overwhelmed.
“It should.” His authoritative voice hacked away at what little self-confidence she had. Then his gaze shot to a pair of lacy panties next to his shoe and he looked ready to pick them up.
She surged forward and snatched up the panties herself. “I have to be somewhere else.”
His frown grew more pinched. Then she remembered Tanya’s nickname for him—Mr. Little Dickhead.
Ignoring his ever-present scowl, she snatched up her pink bra, which was also on the floor. She folded the panty and bra and set them on top of the other items in her suitcase.
“Look.” He moved to stand beside her and his shoulder accidentally brushed against hers. “You need to get a restraining order. You need to make a report.”
Unnerved by his closeness, she shifted to the side and reached to zip the suitcase. It stuck and she jerked at it. He moved in, gently brushed her hands aside, and zipped the case with ease.
“Thanks.” The word naturally slipped out of her mouth.
“Don’t be stupid,” he said.
She stared at him, dumbfounded. Hadn’t she said thanks? Where was the normal reply, You’re welcome? How did thanks wind up with a comeback of, Don’t be stupid? Jeez, he really was a dickhead.
“You need to get a restraining order,” he said again.
“I’ll go later.” More bitchy. She remembered her dream. She crossed her arms over her chest. “And I’ll talk to someone else. Not you.”
His eyes widened. “You got a problem with me?” He reached down and picked up a pair of black panties.
She raised her chin a notch. “Yeah, you’re rude. You treat people with total disrespect. And . . . you’ve got my panties.” She blushed when she realized what she’d said and held out her hand. “I’ll take those.”
He handed her the underwear. “I’m rude?” he asked. “And here I didn’t think you were very discriminating about the men you hung out with.”
His remark hit with precision; her throat knotted. She saw regret flash in his eyes, but it was too late. Instinct told her to walk away, but bitches always got the last word. “I am discriminatory. Stan took nine weeks before he got ugly; you’ve beat his record hands down. I don’t like you.” She grabbed her case and started out.
“Hey,” he called, but she didn’t look back.
~
“Sorry,” Brit muttered to himself. He watched her roll the suitcase out then listened while it thumped down the stairs. Each thud hit against his conscience. Her insult stung like hot sauce that came with a warning on the label. It burned going in, burnt when it hit his gut, and was gonna burn his ass when it exited. If it exited. He had a feeling this was going to hang around his conscience for while, because she was right, he’d been rude. Hell, he’d been more than rude, he’d been an ass.
Regret pumped a little acid to his gut. He’d been trying to help. And did it badly, his conscience countered.
Pressing his palms into his eye sockets, he tried to get a grip on his floundering emotions. Inhaling, he coughed when the air reeked of cigarette smoke. Jeez, was she a chain smoker? Oddly, he hadn’t smelled it on her. She’d smelled soft and sweet enough to taste. His gaze went to a pair of panties she neglected to grab from the floor. But holy shit, he needed to get a hold of himself.
Storming out, he shut the door. Realizing she hadn’t locked her apartment, he frowned. Then he remembered her broken window. He walked down the steps, headed to his car, but hesitated when he saw the front office. She wasn’t his problem.
He took another step toward his car when someone touched his shoulder. He swung around, but no one was there. Brushing his shoulder where he still felt a crazy sensation, his gaze shot to the office door again.
“Shit!” He gave in. Maybe Anderson was right. He was a softy. No, softies weren’t rude assholes.
He stepped into the office. A young brunette, dressed in a mini skirt that looked like she meant to hit the bars after work, stood up.
“You need to fix the window in apartment 215,” he said.
Miss Hot-To-Trot smacked her gum. “Who are you?”
“Police.” He flashed his badge.