Chapter 8 #3
He lifts a dark brow, a glimmer of the arrogant smile he sports in all of his red-carpet pictures flickering amongst his chiseled features.
“No, don’t kill it! Catch it with a cup,” Sunny pleads, pulsing up and down on her heels behind me and not remotely concerned with letting him in. I make a mental note to have a talk with her about safety when she’s home alone.
“Volume up,” the hub chimes in, before booming out rap music.
“Oh, for the love of god!” I bellow, throwing my hands up in the air.
I resign myself to the anarchy, my stomach rolling uneasily as I watch Chase let himself in.
It’s only at this moment I realize the place is kind of messy.
Sunny’s craft materials litter the coffee table and laundry spills from the armchair onto the floor, awaiting folding.
Great, not only has this arrogant schmuck got a hold over me, but he’s probably looking down his aristocratic nose too. I elongate my spine and bristle in his direction, but my bravado is swiftly swept away by the commencement of the spider’s voyage—faster this time and towards us instead.
Me and Sunny both panic, scurrying back to the cushion furthest away on the couch. Chase laughs, a deep and honeyed sound that invites the baby hairs on the back of my neck up above the music.
“Relax, Peppercorn.” He rolls his eyes, leaving the apartment door open behind him and swiftly heading for the kitchen in the corner of the room.
His tenor is a deep enough rumble that I hear it over the music.
Not only that, I feel it in my chest. I cringe, not only from the stupid nickname, but when I see the dirty dishes in the sink.
If he notices, he doesn’t let on, opening cupboards until he finds what he’s after. He swipes a bowl and a paper plate and then walks back to the spider, which is nearly under the couch, to my unease.
“Please don’t miss it,” I moan as I watch, transfixed.
I realize how insane this is for a grown woman to be so terrified of a spider, but it’s something about the way they move.
Like, if I take my eyes off it for one second it might scuttle up my back and into my hair.
Perhaps start controlling me like the rat in Ratatouille.
He places the bowl over the spider and gently jimmies the plate under it to scoop it up without a fuss and starts to head for the door.
He's a better person than I am. I would have chucked a book onto it, or sucked it up with the vacuum. Failing that, gassed it out with hairspray. That way it can’t live in this building and breed a little spider army to come back and haunt us.
I let out a sigh of relief as he nears the door, peeling Sunny off my back so that I can step down from the couch. My eyes are glued to Chase’s wide back, muscles slipping and sliding beneath the fine material of his suit, so much so that I don’t see Mr. Clay appear until he starts yelling.
“Loud music and smelly food!” he bellows, shaking a fist at Chase, who pauses with a bewildered expression. It’s almost laughable to see these two men face to face, one so small and decrepit, and the other a giant ball of towering muscle.
Chase flicks deep whiskey eyes my way and I fold my arms smugly, quite happy to let him deal with Mr. Clay alone and relishing seeing the self-assured billionaire out of his comfort zone for the first time.
“Volume down!” Sunny yells from behind me, clearly taking pity on him, and the hub switches the volume back down to a background hum.
“Sir—” He starts to speak, but swiftly gets interrupted by a ruddy-faced Mr. Clay.
“Back in my country, we know not to cook smelly food in communal buildings!” He lifts a finger to point at the plate as spittle flies from the corners of his mouth. “Show me what you have there!”
“It’s not—” One of Chase’s dark eyebrows raises slowly as he’s interrupted again, which I’ve come to learn means he’s surprised.
“Show me! All of these newfangled foods and spices—”
Mr. Clay’s yammering fades into the background as sparkling umber eyes slide to mine, and for the first time, there is a glint in their silky depths that makes me feel like we’re on the same side of a joke.
My throat closes, all of my focus narrowing to the thick shadow of his long lashes, the sharply cut tanned features that create an effortlessly handsome visage.
He tips one broad shoulder up a fraction, and in that millisecond, I realize what he’s about to do.
I glance at a now near-purple Mr. Clay—whose over-large nose is a mere inch from the plate—and back in alarm at the beginning of a smirk flourishing at one corner of Chase’s mouth.
Before I have a chance to open my mouth and protest, Chase plucks the pot from the plate as if he’s removing a cloche from some exquisite dish.
The spider charges across the patchwork paper plate in the direction of Mr. Clay, whose gnarled eyebrows shoot skyward in alarm. A garbled cry of shock fills the room and the old man tips backward, losing his balance and toppling to the floor.
Fuck.