Promiscuous Lies (Vengeful Lies #2)

15. Posie

CHAPTER 15

Posie

I ’m doing the dishes when there’s a knock on my door. My eyebrows furrow because eight in the evening is way too late for a delivery driver. There’s another knock, and I curse. I’d leave it if the person weren’t so persistent, and I wasn’t worried about it waking Bentley.

I collect the bat beside my door, bracing myself for the third knock. I open the door, and my left eye twitches when I see Dutton standing there, looking like he’s just stepped off the runway, holding a big brown bag that I’d much rather be over his head. Because, fuck, he looks too good for an insufferable asshole.

I swear the scowl is permanently etched onto his face unless he’s purposefully trying to rile me up.

Does this man ever smile?

I’ve only ever seen him smirk.

I guess I can’t expect too much. I’m sure he’s a psycho.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, making a point to show my bat.

He holds up the bag in his hand, and a pleasant scent of food hits my nose.

Persistent motherfucker can’t take no for an answer.

I narrow my gaze on him. “I never asked for this. I told you I was busy. Were you so spoiled as a child that the mere thought of being told no becomes like a kink to you or something?”

The corner of his mouth tilts up. “You don’t know anything of my kinks yet, sweetheart. But I’d gladly elaborate if you’re open for the discussion.”

“I’d like to skip to the short discussion of you getting the fuck off my porch.”

He might not laugh, but I can see the moment humor twinkles in his gaze. I don’t understand this enigma of a man. Is his ice shield so fucking high he doesn’t want anyone to know he has a personality? Then again, it’s highly possible he genuinely doesn’t have one. Not unless it’s being a pain in the ass and pissing people off, which he’s very good at.

“Let me in to feed you,” he encourages.

“No.” I close the door further in case Bentley hears or pops his head out of his room.

Dutton cracks his neck from side to side and licks his lips as if trying to remain calm.

Oh no, someone used the big “no” word again. Psycho.

“I’m being nice here, and nice is not something I’m overly familiar with,” he says.

“Good, neither am I.” I step back to push the door shut, but his foot stops it. I let out an irritated sigh. “I told you; I don’t want your food. I already ate, and you aren’t allowed in my house.”

“Take the fucking food then,” he snaps. He then clears his throat and looks away. “I’m sorry.”

My jaw drops. “What was that?”

His gaze remains on the ground for a moment before he looks back up at me as if willing the confidence to apologize to my face. “Please take the food.”

I glance at the bag. If I take it, he might actually leave.

“Did you poison it?”

“No.” He scoffs like he can’t believe I even considered it.

“Okay, did you spit in it?”

“Just take the goddamn food,” he says, thrusting it at me.

“Okay.” I take it from him, and our fingers brush as he passes it to me. I hate the spark it charges me with. It floods me with memories of him between my legs. Him pressing me against a door.

I can see in the way he’s looking at me that we’re thinking the same thing. As I go to pull the bag toward myself, he holds onto it.

“I want dessert,” he says.

“And I want a million dollars, but we can’t all get what we want,” I reply, yanking the bag from his hand. Fuck. Every time I touch this man, or I’m near him, my wires get crossed. “Goodnight, boss.”

“You can call me Dutton.” I roll my eyes as I try to kick his foot out of the doorway. “Wait. One more thing,” he says, keeping his foot wedged in the door’s opening.

I sigh, exasperated, and raise my eyebrows expectantly.

“Why won’t you add me on Instagram?”

It feels like the world stops at the absurdity of that question. Is this fucker for real? Why does he look like a disheartened child who I told I won’t share my toys with? I kick his foot out of the way and slam the door as I say, “Goodnight, Mr. Taylor.”

“Or that works,” I hear him mumble on the other side of the door. “This doesn’t count as the date. That involves two people.”

“Yeah, well, tonight it can involve you and your hand,” I call back as I walk away from the door.

I peek out of the living room window and watch as he turns and walks back to his car.

If there were a manual to deal with Dutton Taylor, I’d read it from front to back so that I can figure out how the fuck his brain works.

When I open the bag in the kitchen, the smell hits me hard . Yum. I cooked chicken nuggets the last few nights, so something other than that is a win.

I pull out each container and find food I know is from a five-star restaurant. I wonder which plate was for him. Actually, who cares? They’re both mine now.