Page 19 of Killer's Obsession
I rub the back of my neck, suddenly feeling like an idiot. “Never had to furnish a place of my own before.”
I’ve always lived at the clubhouse, and before that, I was in and out of foster homes. This is the first time I’ve had to do anything like this.
Her expression softens, and she pats my chest. “Such a man.”
I snort. I don’t think my DNA has anything to do with it.
A salesman in a navy blue suit approaches, his eyes lighting up when he spots us. Dollar signs might as well be flashing in his pupils like a cartoon character. “Welcome to the Furniture Emporium! How can I help you folks today?”
I open my mouth to tell him to fuck off, but Memphis speaks first.
“We’re furnishing an entire house,” she says with a smile that makes the guy’s eyes drop to her lips. “We need everything.”
The salesman—Brad, according to his name tag—shifts his attention fully to Memphis, his gaze lingering on the sliver of skin between her crop top and the leather pants that hug her ass to perfection. “Everything, huh? Well, you’ve come to the right place, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart?
A growl builds in my chest. Brad’s eyes snap to mine, finally registering the six-foot-five, two-hundred-eighty-five-pound killing machine standing next to the tiny woman he’s openly eye fucking.
“I, uh—“ He takes a step back. “Let me know if you need anything.”
He scurries away like a cockroach when the lights come on, and Memphis elbows me in the ribs.
“Did you just growl at that poor man?”
I shrug. “He was looking at you like you were on the fucking menu.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile playing at her lips. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe.” I grab her hand and pull her deeper into the store. “Let’s start with the living room.”
We wander through displays of couches and coffee tables, none of them catching my eye. Everything looks too small or too fancy for my taste.
“I’m shit at this,” I admit after rejecting the fifth sectional Memphis points out. “Don’t know what looks good.”
She stops, turning to face me with her hands on her hips. “What’s the most important thing to you? Comfort? Style? Durability?”
I think about it for a second. “Something big enough that I don’t feel like a fucking giant sitting on it.”
She nods thoughtfully, then grabs my hand again. “Let’s keep looking.”
She leads me to a section we haven’t explored yet, where the couches are bigger. She stops in front of a massive L-shaped sectional in dark charcoal gray.
“What about this one?”
I eye it suspiciously, then reach out to test the cushion. It’s firm but comfortable. I glance at the price tag and wince. This shit ain’t cheap.
“Try it,” she urges, pushing me toward it.
I lower myself onto the couch, surprised when it doesn’t immediately feel like I’m sitting on a fucking rock. It’s comfortable. And big enough that my knees aren’t up to my earlobes like I’m sitting in a child’s chair.
“This could work,” I admit.
Memphis sits down beside me. She bounces slightly, testing the springs. “It’s nice. Not too soft, not too firm.”
“Just right?” I smirk. “Okay, Goldilocks.”
She laughs. “You need a coffee table and end tables to match. Maybe an entertainment center for your TV.”
