“No. My housekeeper, Kendra, did.”
“Your housekeeper’s name is Kendra?” Housekeepers weren’t supposed to be called Kendra. Housekeepers were supposed to be called Martha or Stella or, in the interest of not being sexist, Marcel. Kendras were blonde with big boobs. She was probably one of those naked housekeepers, the kind that came over and stripped for you so you could get your rocks off while you watched them clean your house.
Colt ignored me, instead turning away so he could finish his phone call.
I just stood there, fuming. If he wasn’t off the phone in ten seconds, I was going to do something drastic. Like start tearing this room apart. I looked around for something I could start with.
The wasn’t much, but it was doable. When I was seven, I had a foster brother with an attachment disorder who would throw insane tantrums. My foster parents started removing everything from his room – his books, his toys, his clothes. Anything he could pick up and grab. Eventually he just started taking his bed frame apart using a butter knife he’d smuggled in from the kitchen. Then he took the pieces and hauled them out the window. That’s when then sent him back to social services. I was kind of sad to see him go.
I’d start with the robes in the closet, I decided. I’d pull them off the hangers and throw them onto the floor. Then I’d strip the bed. Everything in the room was done in light colors– white robes, cream sheets, cream bedding. Who had a room where everything was white or cream? People who were rich enough so that they don’t have to worry about laundry, I guessed.
I started a countdown in my head.
Ten… nine… eight…
“Whatever,” Colt said into the phone, sighing. “I’ll be right there.”
He hung up the phone before I could even get to seven, which was disappointing.
“I want to leave,” I said.
“Your clothes aren’t done being washed.”
“You can send them to me,” I said, challenging. “You can wrap them up in a box and have Kendra bring them down to the post office.”
“No one uses the post office anymore,” he said. “You have someone come and pick things up. From UPS.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “God, I hate you.”
He smiled. “No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No.” He shook his head. “You hate yourself because you don’t hate me.”
“Stop telling me how I feel!”
“I know how you feel,” he said, walking back over to me. “You feel good. Soft. Sexy.” He breathed the last word right into my ear, and I swallowed, frozen in place. No one had ever called me sexy before.
He ran his hands up my arms, then reached over and grabbed the zipper on my sweatshirt. “If you want your clothes back,” he said, sliding the zipper down slowly. “I can go and find them. But I’m going to need my sweatshirt back.” His knuckles grazed my breast again, and his touch sent electricity through me.
His eyes were on mine, and I couldn’t explain it, but in that moment, I felt this intense connection to him. I felt like he was supposed to be here, in my life. Or I was supposed to be in his. It was crazy, especially since he had just been pissing me off so bad.
Was this lust? I wasn’t sure I’d ever felt lust before. Yes, I’d noticed hot guys, in real life, and on TV and such, but this was different. It wasn’t just physical, which I’d always thought lust was. This was emotions and physical feelings all rolled up into one, pulling me up and down, high and low. One moment I hated this guy, the next minute I was resisting the urge to lie down on his bed and let him do whatever he wanted to me.
It was confusing and thrilling and made me feel like I was losing my damn mind. Even with Declan it hadn’t been like this.
Declan.
“It’s okay,” I said, shrugging the sweatshirt back onto my shoulders. “I can just wear this back to the shelter. Um, if it’s okay with you.”
Colt shrugged and backed away, and in a flash, I hated him again. How could his presence be having such an affect on me while he seemed so obviously unaffected?
Guys like him didn’t go for girls like me. I wasn’t hot enough, or rich enough, or interesting enough, and even though he’d called me sexy, I had a hard time believing it. He liked messing with me. Anything else didn’t make any sense.
When we got to his car, Colt opened the passenger side door for me.
“Thanks,” I said, sliding into the seat.
He walked around and got in next to me, then reached over and grabbed my seatbelt, pulling it across and buckling me in.
“I can put on my own seat belt,” I said. “I’m not a child.”
“Then why didn’t you?”