25. Hunter
Twenty Five
Hunter
I didn’t even have to open the door to know something was off. The faint thunk-thunk-thunk of repeated strikes echoed through the house, punctuated by a muttered curse.
Curiosity got the better of me. I pushed down the handle, crossed the threshold, and entered, my wet sneakers squeaking subtly on the hardwood floor. The sight greeting me made me freeze in my fucking tracks.
Ella was precariously balanced on a chair, one foot wobbling, holding a framed, decorative print and hammering it into the wall with her hairbrush.
My brain short-circuited, and I just blinked. Once. Twice.
“Ella.” My voice was calm, but internally I was hyperventilating. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
She peeked over her shoulder, hairbrush poised, then shrugged. “Couldn’t find a hammer.”
“What about this seemed like a good idea to you?”
“It’s fine. I’m eyeballing it. Precision is overrated.”
Precision is overrated?
My stomach twisted. I’d spent literal hours leveling, measuring, drilling, and now she was threatening my walls with a hairbrush .
“Eyeballing it?” I asked, tone flat. “Do you see the angle of that frame?”
She shrugged again, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Relax. A little crookedness adds character.”
“A little crookedness?” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “It’s three inches. Three. Inches.”
“Three inches? Chill. It’s not like the house is going to collapse.” She tilted her head, feigning innocence.
I gestured toward the floor, where the chair teetered dangerously. “Maybe not the house. Maybe you will, though.”
Her grin widened. “You wanna help, or just stand there judging my technique?”
“No,” I said, marching over. “I want to stop you before you destroy the structural integrity of my house. And maybe my soul.”
“Didn’t know you had one of those, Robot Boy.”
Growling, I grabbed her by the thighs and yanked her off the chair, silently cursing the inventors of hairbrushes.
By the time I’d whipped out my stud finder, drill, level, screws of three sizes, and a pair of perfectly calibrated pliers, she was backing away with her hands up, eyes wide.
“Okay,” she said, hands raised. “Fine. I give up. But seriously, why do you have all this stuff?”
I rolled my eyes. “Because some people apparently think a hairbrush doubles as a hammer.”
“Show me how it’s done, then. But no lecturing.”
I arched a brow. “No lecturing?” I held up my level and drill like sacred relics. “You mean, aside from the fifteen warnings about gravity, torque, and your complete disregard for precision?”
“Oh, I’ll survive,” she said, mock-saluting with her hairbrush. “But you better work fast. This wall has character to gain.”
I tried not to groan. “Character? The wall doesn’t need character. It needs straight lines. What the fuck even is this?” I examined the frame.
She laughed, tilting her head like it was the funniest thing she’d ever seen. “You’re ridiculous. I love it.”
God help me. I was in love with someone who considered chaos an interior design strategy.