Page 23 of The Jellybean Dilemma

“Of course, Miss Elgin.” He’d opened the door for me, tipping his hat as I climbed in.

The back seat smelled like tequila and sex, making my stomach roll once more. I opened one of the panels in the wall, finding some mints we kept on hand. Popping one in my mouth, I breathed it in. The peppermint scent reminded me of Greg, punching me in my gut like an iron fist. I flopped onto the seat, my hand resting under my cheek as I stared into the darkness.

I hadn’t heard a word from Greg that whole weekend, and on Monday morning an envelope had been delivered to me with his resignation. Effective immediately.

The noise of the shower turning off pulled me back to the present. I didn’t want Greg to find me lazing about in bed, so I jumped up to get dressed. Only to remember that all my things were still in the other room.

Dammit. Maybe if I watch where I step?

Getting a splinter seemed like a better option than facing Greg at the moment, so I hurried to my room. Of course, my suitcases lay behind several feet of shards. That must’ve been one hell of a lamp.

I turned on the main light, gingerly picking my way through the debris field. The lamp was a lighter color than the carpet, making it easy to spot the pieces. I’d just slip on a pair of my shoes for the way back. I grinned at my resourcefulness, focusing once more on where to step. Halfway across, I heard a bellow that made me cringe.

“What are you doing?” Greg’s angry face appeared in the doorway, even madder than it had been before taking a shower.

I pictured his face frozen that way and giggled to myself before resuming my tedious trek.

“Rhonda, stop.”

His pleading words meant nothing to me. After all, what was he going to do?

A few seconds later, I found out. In just a pair of black sweatpants and tennis shoes, he stomped in, threw me over his shoulder and carried me from the room.

“I was almost there!” I couldn’t ignore his warm arm clamped across the back of my thighs or the bare, muscled expanse beneath me, still dotted with bits of moisture from his shower. My stomach thrilled as I failed to look away. He could’ve at least put on a shirt.

I flew back over his naked shoulder, frantically grabbing the hem of my tank so it stayed put. The last thing I wanted was to give him a show on top of everything. He set me down hard enough that I winced, and it was a testament to how angry he was that he didn’t notice. Adrenaline coursed through my entire body.

“What was so important that you were walking over broken glass barefoot?” he demanded, keeping his hands on my waist as if afraid I’d run right back over to do it again.

Desire rolled through me as I took in his rigid stance. I wanted to thread my finger through his hair and yank his mouth to mine. Instead, I flipped my hair over my shoulder to make sure he saw every inch of my skimpy pajamas. “I didn’t think you’d appreciate me tromping around your house half-naked. I need my clothes.” I added in my most snarky tone, “I would have worn my shoes back.”

Those magnificent eyes turned stormy as they surveyed my few scraps of clothing as if seeing them for the first time. His face turned an odd shade of purple. With a peculiar choking noise, he spun away from me to huff out of the room.

Why did my bare body always piss him off so much? I remembered how he’d yelled at the sight of my water-drenched shirt in the car, and I fought the urge to cross my arms over myself. We were both adults here—he could deal with it. When he returned a few moments later with my suitcases, he lifted an eyebrow as if to ask if I were happy.

“My shoes.” I paused, then added a reluctant, “Please.” His jaw tightened once more, and I could tell he was trying to keep a lid on his fury. But if he didn’t want me going in there, what was I supposed to do? I threw him a bone as he stalked out the door. “Just the black pair.”

When he reappeared, he tossed them on the bed. “Will that be all, Miss Elgin?”

I glared. “Yes, thank you. You’re dismissed.” My icy tone delivered each word with frigid precision.

Before he shut the door, his gaze slid down my body one more time, as if against his will. I wasn’t sure if it was him or the door that groaned.

When I made it downstairs, barefoot and wearing a fitted tee with yoga pants, I was surprised that Greg was the only other person around despite it being close to eight a.m. He lounged on the couch, reading a newspaper. At least he put a shirt on.

“C’mon. You can help me make breakfast.” He snapped the paper closed, striding toward the kitchen and giving me an excellent view of what those sweatpants did for his tight ass.

At that moment, I was happy to follow him anywhere. Then confusion set in. “Wait, don’t you guys have a cook?” I knew someone else had made dinner last night.

The derisive glance over his shoulder and the curled upper lip set me on edge before the words even left his mouth. “Is the heiress afraid of getting her hands dirty?”

My hands flew to my hips as I took offense. “I know how to cook, thank you very much. I was just curious.”

His voice was a little softer when he responded. “Her name is Myrna, but she doesn’t work Mondays. I thought I’d make omelets for everyone.”

We didn’t speak again until after we were in the state of the art kitchen. Almost every surface was stainless steel and sparkling clean. It was a bit eerie seeing my face everywhere.

Greg started a pot of coffee, then went to the fridge to pull out omelet ingredients, setting them on the massive island. “The skillets are in the lower cupboard over there. Find me the one with the blue handle?”

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