Chapter Nine
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To win is to win, of course.
Poem
Fox’s apartment looks exactly like I would have expected of a dwelling above a bar and not at all like I would have guessed for him. I always pictured him with dark leather and dark wood, living life by a single Tiffany lamp and a cozy, manly mood.
The cozy, manly mood is present, but presented much differently than I imagined.
Instead of leathers and dark woods, the huge, open space boasts brick walls and steel beams. Color dots the main room in surprising slashes.
A yellow couch. A pink rug. Orange barstools.
He flips a switch, and several tall, sculptural lamps turn on, illuminating the mixture of industrial and fun in a soft glow.
It looks…
Incredible, if I’m honest. Funky without being overwhelming and warm in a way that shows he clearly cares about the comfort of himself and his guests—when those guests aren’t me, anyway.
He grumbles something decidedly not hospitable as he comes to a stop in the middle of his open-plan kitchen to glare at me.
I turn, looking for my emotional support Wolfy, only to find him wiggling his fingers in a goodbye from the hallway.
“Don’t leave me here with him!” I hiss.
“Sorry,” he says, not one single ounce of apology in his tone. “But I’m childfree for a night. I’m going to go take a long, uninterrupted shower and watch something rated R.” He grins, eyes flashing to his brother. “Enjoy your… whatever it is you two have going on.”
And then the door is shut, and he’s gone, and I am all alone with Fox and my moronic butterflies.
My skin tingles.
“What could I possibly have done to deserve this,” I wonder aloud, staring at the door my buffer just left through. “What perilous deeds have I committed that this is my fate?”
“I’ve been asking myself the exact same questions,” Fox grouches, then he sighs, remembering the scant amount of manners he possesses. “Let me give you a tour.”
I agree graciously. The pout is just a permanent fixture of my face now, thank you very much.
“This area is self-explanatory,” he says, gesturing to the wide open space that is his living room, dining room, and kitchen. The ceilings reach high, at least fifteen feet, but the width of the room isn’t crazy. Maybe half the width of the building. I assume the other half is taken up by bedrooms.
My assumptions are confirmed when he takes me to a hallway hidden behind a tall bookcase.
“This is the bathroom,” he offers, pushing open a green door to reveal what is most definitely a bathroom, complete with a tiger bath mat that isn’t identical to one I have at home, but is pretty close.
Where mine is orange, this one is pink. It pains me to admit that the pink one is cuter.
I contemplate my stance on theft as I survey the rest of the room.
Colorful tiles cover the walls from floor to ceiling, where a single window sits well into the wall.
Plants line the sill, their vines tumbling down to wrap around towel hooks and mirror corners.
His toothbrush rests in a ceramic holder that mimics an eaten-up apple with worm holes for toothbrush handles to rest in.
My eyebrows rise at the whimsical nature of it all while cogs turn in my brain, attempting to reconcile Fox’s decorating with the buzzkill himself.
The only thing not surprising in this bathroom is the assortment of soaps and shampoos sitting on shower shelves.
Fox smells good, always, but it’s not always the same smell.
The underlying him is there, but I often make a game of guessing which him he will be.
Vanilla? Cedar? Citrus? Or my favorite—mystery scent, which I can now see is cactus fruit. Or, possibly, dragonfruit.
“You’ll sleep over here,” he says, pulling me away from my perusal of his bath items and down the hall. We stop in front of another green door, pausing as he gestures to the purple one beside it. “That’s my room. I’ll be right there if you need anything.”
Sure. Yes. Him. Over there. On the other side of the wall.
How perfect.
I will my stomach to settle. He’s a massive freaking jerk, I remind it.
It doesn’t listen, of course. Stupid, stupid thing.
We enter his guest room, where I’ll be sleeping.
“Oh,” I say, absolutely startled.
He hums. “Not everyone likes my tastes, so I made sure it was neutral in here.”
“That’s… thoughtful.” And also dumb. His decorating tastes are immaculate.
Even here, where he’s clearly confined himself to a color palette of pale greens and beige, the room still lends itself to warmth and whimsy.
A lamp in the shape of a turtle shines from the bedside table, and the bed itself is covered in a huge, beautiful patchwork quilt.
I slip my shoes off before daring to step on the soft sage rug peeking out from under the bed, then press my hand into the quilt.
“I hope it’s satisfactory for you,” Fox says, throwing a hand out.
“That’s the closet. There are extra sheets, blankets, and pillows in there.
I keep the apartment pretty cold at night, so feel free to grab whatever you need.
There was a heated blanket in there last time I checked, but Almond’s threatened to steal it more than once, so I can’t guarantee it’s still there. ”
It is absolutely not in that closet. It is, instead, nestled between Almond’s sheets and comforter on her bed at home, exactly where it’s been since she made away with it three months ago under…
light… encouragement from me. Encouragement it sounds like I might regret when I’m freezing my toes off later tonight.
Alas, the reapings of pettiness are often suffering.
Hoping the blankets that remain will be enough, I turn my mind to more interesting things. “What’s an evil overlord’s bedroom look like?” I wonder. “When the evil overlord’s house is all colorful whimsical charm?”
My question comes flippantly, an offhand curiosity I don’t expect to be assuaged. Fox’s response, however, is riveting.
The man blushes.
My eyes widen with glee, and I stride toward him to poke at his burning cheeks. I cackle. “Oh my gosh!”
He smacks my hand away, taking a large step back when I reach for him again. “Stop that,” he hisses. “I’m not blushing.”
“You so totally are.” I laugh. “This is incredible. It almost makes my house disaster worth it.” I snort.
“You’re blushing, and it goes all the way to your ears!
” Delight has me bouncing on my feet as I herd him out of the room and to the left—toward the purple door he indicated as his.
“You said I could go in if I needed anything, right? Well, I desperately need something right now, Fox.”
Impossibly, his blush deepens. His eyes avoid mine as he stutters, “Wh-what?”
“Oh, this is beautiful.” I grin. “What’s in there that’s got you squirming, hmm?”
“Nothing in there has me squirming,” he grumbles as his back hits his door, hands falling flat against the stained wood. “And it’s none of your business what my private bedroom looks like. Unless it’s an emergency, stay out.”
“I’m having an emergency,” I retort. “A big one, you could even say.” I reach for the doorknob. “I believe that qualifies me for a peek, per your regulations?”
His hand lands on my wrist, and, chest heaving, he remembers his own bulk enough to turn it against me.
Before I can so much as blink, he’s gained the higher ground—literally.
He flips us, pushing my back into his door while he holds my hands at my sides, firmly away from the doorknob. My nerves electrify.
He glares through his blooming cheeks, and despite our new position, I grin.
“Someone’s touchy,” I taunt.
“Stay out of my bedroom,” he orders.
My lips purse as I pretend to consider obeying, and his attention drops to them.
“Poem,” he growls. “Don’t test me. You have no clue how close to the edge I am right now.”
I snort. “As if pushing you over the edge isn’t one of my dearest pastimes.”
His eyes darken, and morale increases by a minimum of eighty percent.
“You get a little line between your eyebrows when you look at me like that,” I tell him. “It’s forming a wrinkle.”
He says a particularly nasty bad word as his face comes one threatening inch closer.
Before I can throw another jab his way, the doorbell rings.
I frown. Things were just looking up. In a minute, he was going to stomp away like a little baby to pout, and I would have gained another point in our never-ending competition to… I don’t know. Win.
As Fox drags me down the hallway by my wrists, I eye his pink cheeks, a frisson of pleasure tingling through me.
Sure, I didn’t technically get a point.
But somehow, it still feels like winning.