Chapter Thirteen
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There is no mood a nap cannot make better. And I live by that.
Poem
“You could have at least tried to hit, oh, anything but me,” Fox grumbles. Again. For the four-hundredth time.
“You could have at least tried to, oh, move out of the way,” I suggest, again, for the four-hundredth time. “Who sees stuff flying at them and just stands there to get hit?”
“Who throws stuff in the one spot there’s a person standing?
” he counters, teeth grinding. His knuckles whiten around the handles of a substantially hefty duffel bag full of clothes, having acquired it when it fell directly on his head because he didn’t move in the face of a rapidly approaching object.
The bumbling idiot.
I sniff. “You’re being awfully sensitive about this. And annoying.”
“I’m being annoying?” he asks. “Me?”
I turn, narrowing my eyes as I bump the door to Blackwood Brew open with my shoulder. “Yes,” I answer. “Supremely, if I’m honest.”
Genuinely, I think his head is going to explode.
I twist, dragging a second duffel full of odds and ends behind me.
As I stomp across the bar floor, I huff.
“You know, helping is usually something a person does with a good attitude. A kind heart. Happiness. Joy. Generosity. It is not generally accompanied by enough complaining to fill a stop at one’s sister’s house, a trip to the grocery store, a pop in at the convenience store, and a pit stop to fill up gas. ”
“Helping is usually voluntary,” he retorts. “And neither of us volunteered for this situation.”
Well. That’s true enough, I suppose.
And yet.
I whirl, pinning him with a glare.
He jerks to a halt, meeting my displeasure head on.
“Is this going to be my life for the next… however long?” I ask. “Because, I’ll be so honest with you, I cannot handle your constant bad attitude. It’s bumming me right out.”
His stubbled jaw clenches. “I don’t have a bad attitude,” he straight up lies.
“I’ve done nothing but be nice to you today,” I declare.
“I offer you good sleep advice. I tell you how handsome you are. I let you gaze upon my beautiful face and experience my sparkling personality. And what do I get in return? Sass! And rudeness!” I tsk.
“It’s despicable, Fox. And not at all how a gentleman should treat a lady. For shame.”
His head tilts up to the ceiling, and his chest puffs as he takes a long, deep breath.
I wait, magnanimously allowing him a moment to contemplate my sheer goodness and positive impact it has in his life while I contemplate the alluring line of veins popping on his neck in his agitation. The butterflies and I agree: totally kissable.
“I’m not doing this,” he grunts after a nice, long think about how great I am. His head drops. Goodbye, pretty veins. “I’m putting your crap upstairs, then I’m going to my office to do payroll. You can do… whatever it is that you do before work, so long as you do it away from me.”
Ah. I see. “Of course,” I agree. “I get it. You need more time to marinate on the wonder of me, and it’s hard to fully appreciate me when I’m right in front of you.
It’s too much of a good thing, me standing mere feet away.
” I sigh and shake my head. “How rude of me not to notice before. This is surely why you’ve been so cranky and mean.
You simply can’t handle my presence for this long! ”
“I’m ‘cranky and mean’ because my unwanted, uninvited houseguest threw a thirty-pound bag at my head,” he snaps, the drama queen.
“It is not thirty pounds,” I reply.
“It is,” he insists. “And we’re lucky it didn’t break my neck.”
“Seriously, why didn’t you just move out of the way?”
He scowls.
Officially, I give up. “I’ll take the bag up.
You can go straight to your office and infect the air there with your grumpiness.
I don’t need this bad energy lingering in the room when I’m sleeping.
I have enough of the stuff to contend with already after I nearly died this morning, something you seem to have forgotten. ”
“I haven’t forgotten,” he says. “It’s just that with my own near-death experience, yours doesn’t seem like that big of a deal anymore. You had someone to rescue you. I had to handle the trauma on my own.”
I stick out my hand, nose firmly in the air. “My bag, please.”
He spurns my hand, much like I spurn his point. He grunts as he steps around me to head upstairs.
I follow, muttering under my breath about men and their inability to use their ears in conjunction with their brains. By the time we reach my temporary bedroom, my mumbling has increased in volume to become full-blown curmudgeoning. Fox, the man without abilities, ignores me.
Figures.
At least he’s quick about setting my stuff down and leaving, though. I have to hand it to him. I can always count on Fox Blackwood to leave when things get to be too much. It’s what he does. Alas for me, these days he always comes back afterward. A pity.
Shaking off his bad attitude cooties, I unpack my bags, filling up the dresser in my temporary room, then moving to the bathroom, where I scooch man things around to fit my own stuff.
The medicine cabinet, thankfully, has plenty of room for my toiletries.
I only really encounter an issue when I get to the shower.
Shampoos, conditioners, and soaps line every available inch of ledge space, including multiple installed shelves and an over-the-showerhead organizer. Aha. The downside to Fox smelling delicious twenty-four-seven: zero shower space.
I hold my own in-shower necessities up and address the regular residents of the space.
“The thing is, I need to put these guys in there with you. Unfortunately for us all, this means making some sacrifices. I apologize in advance for what I must do and what it means for you all. Just remember, it’s nothing personal. ”
I immediately make myself a liar, beelining for my least favorite of Fox’s scents—leather manly man something.
I shove the offending bottles under the sink, replacing them with my lilac-scented shampoo and conditioner.
Locating the matching scent in body wash, I make the switch there, too.
Then, I look at the rest of my toiletries bag.
Sure, one could argue that I’ve done more than enough rearranging, what with taking over the medicine cabinet, half the counter, and moving his clearly precious shampoos around.
One could even argue that I don’t need my exfoliating gloves, deep conditioner, scalp scrubber, foot brush, or waterproof speaker.
One would be wrong.
Shrugging, I eliminate two more scent sets from Fox’s rotation, replacing them with what I consider to be the absolute necessities for any showertime routine.
I ignore the squeeze it takes to get his discarded product under the sink, quickly closing the door and leaving the collapse of it all for him to deal with when next he’s fool enough to open the cabinet.
“You served him… mostly well,” I tell the door. “And you will again someday. Don’t lose hope.”
I look through my toiletry bag one last time to make sure I didn’t forget anything, turning it fully upside down after a cursory glance through the pockets. When nothing falls out, I congratulate myself on a job well done and wander back to the bedroom, eyeing Fox’s door as I pass.
I pause.
I could just… peek. Have a little looksie. Full send on invading his privacy in the name of curiosity.
Or, I could be the decent human being I am and not nose about in his sanctuary. If someone went into my bedroom without me knowing, I’d feel violated and gross and probably never enjoy the sensation of safety in the space again.
Shrugging, I banish the urge to investigate.
Do unto others and all that. I have something way better than snooping to do with my time, anyway.
Something that will put all thoughts of Fox’s bedroom far from my mind, blessedly.
Something that includes only me, my bed, and a single blanket to keep me cozy.
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Groggy, I stumble downstairs for my shift at the bar.
“Whoa,” Wolfe says, catching me as I fall on the last few steps while he is, presumably, just trying to get to his apartment in one not-run-over-by-Poem piece. “Careful there.”
I smile sheepishly up at him. “Sorry. Just woke up.”
He snorts. “Cute. Perhaps we save stairs for when we aren’t still caught in the clutches of drowsiness?”
“I would, dear Wolfe, but my boss is a tyrant when I’m late.” I sigh. “It’s terrible. A girl can’t even shake off her nap in peace.”
Wolfe’s lips twitch as he sets me steadily on the ground, then shoves his hands in his pockets. “You sound like Amia waking up for school.”
I grin. “Highly relatable, your spawn. Ten out of ten on that one. Please do again.”
“Uh,” he chokes. “I think you’re forgetting the other half of that equation.”
I shrug, waving that nonsense away. “Semantics.”
Wolfe opens his mouth to respond, lips tipping in amusement, but Fox’s voice rumbles out instead. “Are you going to work today, or are you going to socialize in the stairwell?”
I spin, losing my balance and needing a Wolfly rescue once again. Fox glares from the doorway to the bar, eyes narrowing on Wolfe’s hands at my waist. “I think she can handle standing all on her own,” he grumps.
“Not in my experience,” Wolfe replies. “Bit wobbly, this one.”
Fox scowls, striding forward to grab my hand. “Bit late, this one. Go. I got her.”
Wolfe shrugs, and I barely manage a wave behind me before Fox drags me out and through the bar floor to my station behind the counter. Tonight, I’m bartending. Apparently.
I’ll not be reminding him that I was scheduled to serve. Bartending gets way better tips. And way better tips means way faster paying off of debts, old and new.
“Samantha’s here today,” he says, tilting his chin toward my coworker, a nice but kind of ditzy brunette out on the floor. “I gave her your serving shift. You okay to barback?”
Ah. Maybe Fox does actually know what’s going on in his own bar. Real shocking, that.
“I’m perfect to barback,” I answer, removing my hand from his to give him a salute. “Anything for the team, boss.”
He raises a skeptical eyebrow. “And I’m sure the better tips have nothing to do with it.”
Well. He didn’t have to read my mind like that.
“I am only benevolence and kindness,” I reply. “Put me wherever I’m needed, and I will thrive. Tips have nothing to do with it.”
“They should,” he says. “Since you have to pay for emergency house repairs.”
I wince. “Gee, thanks for reminding me.” I was thinking about it anyway, but still.
“I’m trying to help.” He frowns.
Ah. “So you’ve come to your senses about this morning, then!” I declare, nodding. “This makes perfect sense.” I stifle a yawn. “I suppose I will accept this apology if I make… oh… two hundred dollars? That seems reasonable for a Monday evening.”
He shrugs. “I set up an extra tip jar specifically for helping you fund the fixes. It’ll stay up until you have everything you need.”
I freeze.
He what now?
Shoulders tense, he clears his throat. “The faster to get you out of my house. Of course.”
“Right. Of course.” Except for that the timeline doesn’t change if I pay Emerson and Warren faster. They’d never put off emergency work because of payment. Heck, they haven’t even asked me about payment yet. They just got to work.
Which means… what? That Fox did this out of the goodness of his heart? For me?
My eyes narrow.
Something’s fishy around here.
“What are you doing?” I ask, straight out.
“Being a decent employer?” he replies, one eyebrow rising to challenge my distrust. As if this man has ever given me reason to describe him as “a decent employer.”
“Right… being a decent employer… something you always do. Every time I am employed by you. Because obviously you’re not the same guy who tries to fire me every other day.
Or the one who decided it was better to have no manager at all than to promote me to the job when I practically begged for it and definitely deserved it.
” Not that I’m bitter or anything. “I must have you confused with your evil triplet, Faux.”
He nods, like this makes perfect sense. “If you’re done being weird about it, we have work to do.”
He whirls, walking to the other end of the bar.
Begrudgingly, I call after him, “Thank you!”
He waves my gratitude away, but otherwise doesn’t reply, discomfort making itself known in the rigid line of his shoulders and the taut pull of his shirt against his stiff movements.
It takes hours before he bothers to work past his being-nice-to-Poem induced unease at the situation to acknowledge me enough to look me in the eye again, and even longer before he deigns to speak to me.
When he does, though, I’m well past feeling grateful and tolerant of his immature handling of the apparently taxing task of being kind to me, and well into feeling like maybe I should make his life just that little bit more…
Hmm.
Exciting.