Page 5 of Uxpectedly Ever After

Her black hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun that's listing dangerously to one side, a few strands escaping to curl against her neck. Without her usual makeup, the freckles across her nose and cheeks are fully visible.

The sight of her in those tiny shorts sends a jolt of raw, primitive hunger through me. My fingers fucking ache to grab her hips, to mark that pale skin with my mouth, my teeth, my hands. I want to claim her in ways that’d get me buried alive if Kasen ever found out. But goddamn it, I want her so bad it scares me.

She looks soft. Approachable. Nothing like the sharp-tongued bartender who rolls her eyes at my jokes and acts like I don’t exist.

My throat goes dry. “Hey, Freckles.”

Her eyes narrow. “Don’t call me that.”

I clear my throat, biting back the urge to rile her up. “Sorry.” I’m not sorry, but I’m too fucking exhausted to deal with her wrath right now. “Clover.”

She steps back, gesturing for me to enter with a stiff wave of her hand. My gaze snags on how her shirt rides up, exposing a sliver of pale skin and those indecent shorts that make my lungs seize. Feels like I just sucked in a lungful of smoke—every nerve in my body locks on that tease of bare flesh. I swallow hard before I embarrass myself.

I force my eyes up, catching the slight widening of her eyes as she takes in my appearance.

"You look like hell," she says and then bites her lip like she didn’t mean to blurt out the first thought that popped into her head. There's something beneath the bluntness, too. Concern, maybe. Though she'd probably rather set herself on fire than admit it.

"There was a warehouse fire in the industrial district. Just came off a double." I drop my duffel inside the door and roll my shoulders, wincing at the protest from my overworked muscles. "Place went up like it was made of matchsticks and soaked in gasoline. We almost lost two guys when a support beam collapsed."

For a split second, the mask slips, and genuine worry flickers across her face. "Is everyone okay?"

“Yeah. We got ’em out.” I leave out that I was one of the ones who went back in. That I can still feel the heat of the flames licking at my turnout gear, hear the roar of the fire as it consumed everything in its path. Or that I'd spend another forty-eight hours in that inferno if it meant someone's dad made it home to his kids.

She nods once, then produces a sheet of paper from nowhere. "These are the house rules. I expect you to follow them."

I blink at the color-coded bullet points. Jesus. She typed them out like a goddamn operations manual.

“You color-coded them,” I say, a half-smile tugging at my mouth despite my exhaustion.

"Red for hard non-negotiables, yellow for important but flexible, green for preferences." She crosses her arms over her chest, which does interesting things to her t-shirt. Things I shouldn't be noticing if I want to keep all my limbs. "It's efficient."

I skim the list, my amusement growing with each item.

Rule #1: NO bringing women back to the apartment. EVER.

(Bold, underlined, and in red)

Rule #2: Quiet hours are from 8 AM-12 PM and 6 PM-9 PM.

(So she can sleep after her night shifts and studying, I'm guessing)

Rule #3: Wipe down all kitchen surfaces immediately after use.

(Not even a five-minute grace period?)

Rule #4: Do NOT move the plants under any circumstances.

Rule #5: If you eat any of the emergency chocolate stash, replace it within 24 hours or suffer dire consequences.

(Which, coming from a five-foot-four force of nature, could mean anything.)

“What counts as a ‘dire consequence’?” I glance up from the paper to find her watching me closely.

“You don’t want to find out.” She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Any questions before I show you where you’ll be sleeping?”

I hold up the paper. "Do I need to sign this in blood, or...?"

"Don't tempt me, Priestly." But there's the faintest quirk at the corner of her mouth that might, if I squint real hard, be the ghost of a smile.

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