Chapter Three Remi
Chapter Three
Remi
The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them, something that never happened. My ability to stay calm was legend.
So when I started mouthing off, I was either on the cusp of my period, when things like verbal filters were for cowards, or I needed about fifteen straight hours of sleep.
Unfortunately for the giant, muscled meathead with poor decision-making skills, it was a dangerous combination of both.
I don’t know what I’d expected from Archer Evans in the harsh light of day, but it wasn’t this. It was probably a healthy dose of self-preservation that had me fully believing he’d be less gorgeous and less intimidating outside of our weird little fantasy bubble that never should have existed.
A snide narrator’s voice popped into my head: He was, in fact, not less gorgeous.
My stomach fluttered with nerves as he tried to respond to my less-than-friendly greeting.
The length of his legs, the intimidating breadth of his shoulders, were just shy of stupid, because every inch of him made me feel like a shrimp, and I was no petite, tiny thing. I had to tilt my chin to look him in the face, that prick.
For a moment, his stubble-covered jaw worked back and forth, and I braced myself for some asshole response that would trigger my I will slap the shit out of you instinct, which had never been triggered in twenty-seven-and-a-half years on this earth.
But for this guy—driving his drunk ass into the building I loved so much—I’d break that streak in a heartbeat.
But then his chest expanded on a deep breath, and he leveled his electric-blue eyes right onto mine. “I am.”
That’s it.
Two words, spoken in a deep, low tone that flipped the pit of my belly upside down. It was brutal.
I crossed my arms. “What are you doing here?”
He glanced sideways to where the dog had disappeared, and blinked a few times before shifting his attention back to me.
Whatever genetic lottery had given this man his bone structure should not be out procreating all willy-nilly, because I was fairly certain he was the most attractive man I’d ever shared space with.
That also made me want to slap the shit out of him.
“In the neighborhood. Thought I’d drop by to say hi.”
“Is that supposed to be a joke? I don’t want to talk to you unless you’re coming to write me a fat fucking check for what you did.”
His smile was tight. “Don’t worry, Red, that’ll come too.”
My pulse skipped at the nickname, a traitorous little bitch of a skip.
“Do not call me Red,” I said hotly. “I have a name, and if I’m forced to talk to you, I’d prefer you use that.”
He raised an eyebrow. “If I knew what it was, I’d consider it.”
My lips rolled together as I tried to decide if I wanted to meet this asshole step for step. Unfortunately, I had a conscience, and being bitchy took more energy than I’d been blessed with that day. “Remi. Remi Sinclair. Now you know my name, and now you can leave.”
“Unfortunately, I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“You’re stuck with me. Or weren’t you aware?”
Oh God, my fingers were tingling as my hands lowered to my sides. “What?”
His eyes flickered. “My fifty hours of community service. The judge made it sound like you knew.”
“No fucking way,” I breathed.
Archer’s gaze narrowed. “Believe me, this is the last thing I’d lie about.”
The apology for not believing him sprang to the tip of my tongue—decades of ingrained behavior rearing its ugly head. We apologized for everything, didn’t we?
I’m sorry I’m late.
I’m sorry I’m bothering you.
I’m sorry I need help.
I’m sorry I can’t do this on my own.
I’m sorry I had a human moment.
Even Mother Teresa must have had a moment where she was ready to snap, right?
There were a lot of amazing people in this world.
Helpful and kind and lovely. But boy, oh boy, there were a lot of dicks too.
And I didn’t much feel like apologizing to this particular dick, or at least not until he did a little apologizing of his own.
“I need to talk to my boss,” I said, marching toward the building.
Mondays were a quiet day for us. We only had open visiting hours the second half of the day, and until Vanessa came in for her shift, it was just me and Muriel.
“I thought this was your building.”
With my hand on the door handle, I froze in place and sent him a scathing look over my shoulder. “Buddy, in all the ways that matter, I promise you it is. That’s why I take particular offense at all the shit you ruined.”
His cheeks flushed the slightest bit pink, but his eye contact never wavered.
“See, now, this would be a perfect time to apologize,” I said, slowly and methodically, like I was speaking to a child. Or someone who’d likely sustained multiple concussions and had poor people skills. “In case you were wondering how to proceed.”
“Would you believe me if I did?”
That stopped me short, and that nervous flutter erupted in my stomach again. I thought about lying, just to be polite. I was always polite. In fact, I’d never been less polite in my entire life than I had been to this guy.
“No.”
“See? Being honest is fun, isn’t it? I don’t apologize often, Remi Sinclair, and if I do, I’m gonna make it count.”
My hand balled up in a fist as I wondered if I could swing hard enough to break his nose.
“For instance, if I wanted to apologize to you, I could start with: I’m sorry I played with your absolutely glorious tits in public.”
A shocked gust of air burst from my mouth.
“You wouldn’t believe that either, though, would you? Or I’m sorry for sticking my hand between your legs, getting just enough of a taste that I’ve thought about you for fucking days. You want me to apologize for that, Red?”
“That entire night was a mistake I narrowly avoided making.” Angry tears swelled in the back of my throat. “Thank God I didn’t go home with you.”
His features were practically carved in stone.
“Like you said, it doesn’t take me long to find someone else, if that’s what I want.
You just happened to fall right in my lap,” he said, brow furrowing like he couldn’t believe his luck.
“You made it so easy. Maybe you are the good girl who never gets out—but when you do, Red, you’re a lot of fucking fun. ”
The crack of my hand across his cheek rang through the parking lot. My palm stung as I cradled it against my chest, mind reeling. I’d slapped him. I’d slapped him.
Archer gaped, gently laying his fingers over the reddened mark on his face. “You hit me,” he said, tone incredulous.
Anger like this was brutal. The blood rushing through my veins felt undeniably hot, like I’d emit steam if someone doused me in cold water.
I clenched my teeth so tight that my molars creaked.
Something indefinable flashed through his eyes.
I wanted to believe it was regret, but I’d never be so stupid as to give him the benefit of the doubt.
Even though my legs were quaking and my stomach trembled, I stepped right into his space. “If you ever speak to me that way again, I will castrate you with a smile on my face.”
His blue eyes narrowed, his mouth firming into an unforgiving line.
“Is that clear?” I asked slowly. “Or do you need me to use smaller words? I’m sure you’ve had your fair share of head injuries.”
Archer studied my face with a tilt of his head, like he was weighing the strength of my threat.
“Crystal clear,” he said after a moment.
My chest was heaving, adrenaline screaming through my system after that slap.
I needed a nap. And a pound of chocolate. And a safe place to go cry for an hour.
If anyone wondered why my ideal-partner list looked the way it did, I’d like to enter Archer Evans into consideration—the primary exhibit as to why I wanted safe and quiet and normal and average.
These egotistical pricks who thought the world revolved around their cocks were the last thing I wanted in my life, and he’d just reminded me exactly why a ruggedly handsome face and honed muscles were severely overrated.
“Stay here,” I commanded.
I turned and disappeared into the building, praying to any deity who would listen that he would keep his ass outside while I had a PMS-y meltdown to Muriel.
Her office was right next to mine, and because she was in the process of reducing her hours now that she’d turned sixty-eight, it was usually used to meet with families while they completed paperwork.
A few days earlier, she’d effectively handed me the reins of the shelter while she prepared for a two-week trip to Europe.
Day one of being in charge and I’d slapped our newest court-mandated volunteer.
It was going great.
The sound of clicking keyboard keys filtered through the cracked door, which was why I only gave a cursory knock before pushing it open.
The sight of whatever expression was on my face caused her to slowly arch an eyebrow. “Oh dear.”
“Did you know?”
Her face was all innocent patience, but I didn’t believe it for one freaking second. “Know what?”
“That he was coming here.”
“Ahh. That.” She folded her hands on her desk and studied me carefully. “How did you find out?”
“He’s out in the parking lot,” I answered through a tight jaw. “It’s hard enough to find volunteers, and those are people who are passionate about rescue work. He’s here as punishment. All he’ll do is get in my way and bitch and moan when I give him work to do.”
Her smile was brief. “You don’t know that.”
“Muriel, the man is a professional football player who’s not exactly winning any congeniality awards. They paid him millions of dollars last year to sit on a bench. You think he cares about how clean our kennels are?”
“He will if he wants us to sign off on his hours to satisfy the courts.”
I scoffed. “This is going to be awful.”
Muriel gave me an appraising look. “Then it’s a perfect challenge for the interim director, isn’t it?”