Chapter Seven Prue #2
When my eyes refocus, I find myself facing the shelving unit that’s littered with dried-up cans of paint and emptied sample sizes. I start sorting them, placing any that may be able to be saved on the left side of the highest shelf I can reach, where Milo instructed me to put them earlier.
With each minute that passes, my breathing settles, my face cools, and the ache between my legs that I’d refused to name begins to quell.
But then he has to go and speak again.
“You never asked which town I’m from.” Milo’s voice drifts toward me in the same way that someone might confidently saunter across a dimly lit dance floor. I perform the quickest of glances to see if he’s looking my way. He isn’t, thank god. “Dorset, if you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t. Your town has a nice fire tower, though.” See, that is why I shouldn’t speak, ever.
“How old are you?” he asks without missing a beat. “I didn’t see you at school.”
“Twenty-four.” A question follows in the safety of my mind before I can help it: Why? Am I too young for you?
“I guess we just missed each other, then.”
“I guess so.” Truth is, I didn’t go to the same school as him. Mom thought it would be good for me to go to the high school three towns over where she didn’t teach to practice some independence. Clearly, it worked wonders.
“You’re not very good at this, huh?”
I turn on my heel in anger, but he doesn’t return my glare, caught up in his work as he washes out brushes in the sink. “Pardon me?”
He smirks in response to the anger in my tone, but still doesn’t turn. Instead, his mischievous glee is held on his fingers and the bristles of the paintbrush he’s rinsing out. “You’re not very good at small talk,” he clarifies.
“I’ve never struggled with it before,” I reply, turning back toward the storage shelf. “Must be the company.”
“I’m twenty-eight,” he tells me, apparently oblivious to my rude remark. “And a kind word of advice from your elder: When someone asks you something, you should typically ask them the same question in return.”
“Even if I don’t care?” I steal a glance at him—a near-fatal mistake.
His arms are crossed in front of his chest as his teeth bite into that ever-crooked smirk he seemingly loves to wear.
His shirt is a little bit wet around his stomach, having been sprayed no doubt by the sink my mother never did fix, revealing the shadow of abdominal muscles that lay underneath.
“You’re mean.” He looks pleased.
“I’m tired, ” I correct. “And I want to get this job done before Mom wakes up.”
“Okay, boss.” He turns the sink off as I turn back to my shelf.
Thank you, I want to say, but don’t. Whether it’s for his help or for finally doing as told, I’m not sure.
Regardless, our agreement doesn’t last long, and my ears perk up at the sound of his footfalls growing nearer.
Once I realize he’s coming over my way, my pulse races back to that annoying, quickened pace.
Fight it as I might, my system floods with heightened awareness, sending me into that feverish, foolish, dizzy state once again as he stops to stand far too close behind me.
“This could be nostalgia speaking,” he says, his voice unbothered compared to how worked up I feel. Mockingly so. “But I remember folks up here being a lot more hospitable.”
“Okay?” All of my energy is in keeping my voice level.
“I guess I was just hoping for a warmer welcome. Small talk, niceties, some warm and fuzzy neighborly shit, ya know?”
I keep my eyes ahead of me on the shelf, but I have to reread the same fucking expiration date six times before it registers and I know which shelf to place it on. “You will definitely be able to get that elsewhere. May I recommend the brewery next door?”
He steps closer, and my throat tightens as if his hands were around it. Wait, why the heck am I thinking about his hands around my—
“What if I want it here ?” he asks, in a near whisper.
There it is again…that maddening ache between my legs. It must be stopped. I have to change the subject. “Do you have a wallet?” I ask, having replayed the moment he brought his credit card out of his pants pocket ten times over now.
He’s slower to respond than he normally is, as if he’s caught off guard. I fight the urge to look over my shoulder and watch him recalibrate. “What?”
“Your credit card.” I give in to the urge, spinning around to face him.
Immediately, my body goes into what feels dangerously close to fight or flight, struck by the reality that I’m wedged in between him and the shelf against my back.
“Is…” I swallow thickly. “Is it always…loose…in your pocket like that?”
“I borrowed my sister-in-law’s.” Amusement dances across his features under a veil of curiosity. “Why?”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
His eyes go straight to the ceiling, then roll back to me. “Yes, dear, I have a wallet.”
The hairs on the back of my neck rise. “You should be careful,” I warn. “You could easily lose her card like that. It’s irresponsible.”
“You calling me irresponsible, Killer?” Milo’s eyes fall to the few strands of freed hair that have found their way onto my shoulder, and I nearly shiver under his stare, as if he’s touching them somehow.
“It only takes a moment to…” I shudder when he licks his lips. “Lose something like that.”
“I will keep that in mind.”
“Please do.” He’s going to kiss me. He’s going to and I want him to, which means it’s probably a terrible idea. “And you should have used one of your own cards…for that kind of mess.”
“Understood.” He steps closer, caging me in. There’s no escape, without using my words now. And those seem difficult to find. Except the rambling ones. “Thank you for the correction, Miss Welch.”
“You’re welcome.” My pulse jumps as I lift my face to look up at him. He smells heavenly. Actually, scratch that, he smells like everything but the holiest of places. The opposite, really. His scent is closer to damnation. Like carnal desire and animalistic urges.
What bodywash does he use? It’s overwhelming.
His crooked smile opens, and I notice he’s got a poppy seed lodged between two of his teeth. Finally, a minor flaw I can focus on. Something to tether me to reality.
“I used my brother’s soap last night. I could call and ask him the name of it, if you’d like. Or, I can steal the bottle for you, if you’d prefer.”
Fuck, did I seriously ask that question out loud?
Milo reaches above me for a paint can, picks it up, and moves it to the left side. He keeps his hand on the edge of the shelf above my head as he seemingly reads something behind me.
Should I offer to move out of his way?
“I was just curious…” I shrug, then turn to look at one of the tattoos along his biceps, the one only a few inches from my face. What is enough? The tattoo reads in small, simple black lettering.
Milo clears his throat, and I instantly turn back toward him. His nose is so close that I could brush it against mine, if I wanted to. Which I don’t, right? I shouldn’t.
“Do you have any more questions for me?” His eyes dip down as he takes in a slow breath. “Or can I kiss you now?”
“Oh, um.” I pull back the few inches I’d somehow floated toward him until the back of my head hits one of the shelves. “We can’t do that.”
Think of how mortifying it would be, I tell the lizard part of my brain that’s fighting to give in. This man seeing you fumble. Seeing you fail. Seeing exactly how little experience you have.
Milo removes the hand from his pocket and places it on his chest, bunching the fabric of his white tank under his fingertips. He has the word dare written across his knuckles and what looks to be a dragonfly on the back of his hand.
“We can’t?” His smile is a sleepy, effortless thing. “That’s a shame, I was starting to think you liked me…”
“I find you attractive, sure. But that doesn’t mean we should kiss.”
He chuckles, and the sound goes right to the tightening coil of my belly. “Finally, she admits it.”
“Please,” I scoff. “As if you need someone else feeding your ego.”
“You don’t know what I need,” he says, his brows lowering a touch.
“Do you always act like this? Go after you want just because you want to?” I ask.
His eyes weigh his answer, sliding left to right. “Pretty much, yeah. Don’t you?”
I cannot help but laugh. He smiles in return, less suave and more genuine—his lips pulling back to reveal that poppy seed again. It has the opposite effect from what I’d expected, or hoped for, leaving me a lot more vulnerable to his charm. “No…I don’t,” I answer, shaking my head.
“You should try it sometime,” he says, his tongue briefly darting out before his smile subsides. His smile never goes flat, I’ve noticed. It simply quiets. “Life is more fun that way.”
“Maybe…. But not today,” I say on an exhale.
“Okay, Killer.” He straightens abruptly, breaking the final remnants of the spell he’d cast over me as he retreats back a few steps, his hands raised like an innocent man. “Back to work then. For real this time.”
I look to the garbage bag on the floor next to me, and back to him as he coolly opens a paint can, peeks inside, and walks it over to the sink.
How is he so unbothered? I feel like I need about twenty cold showers.
Still, one thought remains, it could be just a kiss, right?
It’s been so long since I had one of those.
“Well, I…But if…If I—”
I truly don’t even know what I’m trying to say, but he seems to.
“If you change your mind, you know where to find me.” He winks, and I decide at that moment, Milo Kablukov is the most dangerous man I’ve ever encountered. I need to steer clear of him if I’d like to keep some of my sanity, and dignity, intact.
There will be no compromises. No kissing. Nothing of the sort.