Page 88 of Lucky Laces
Just an eensy, weensy, teeny tiny?—
I’m distracted from the idiotic musings of my mind (and my clearly limited ability to come up with synonyms for small) by a pounding on the front door.
Not the ill-timed knock of Dee’s elderly neighbor (since Ernest has a key), with whom she apparently has plans with today.
Butpounding.
I freeze, body tense, but the noise doesn’t cut off.
If anything, it intensifies.
“What the fuck?”I whisper, rolling in bed and reaching for my sweats that are crumpled on the floor.I do this quickly, yanking them and hissing out a breath when the material catches on one of the stitches.
But even as I’m doing it quickly, the noise is intensifying.
DeeDee shifts on the bed, rolling to her other side and stretching, and normally I’d love to stay and watch the gorgeous show of that sexy nightie shifting over her curves, over every luscious part of her I want to stroke and lick andfuck, but the pounding hasn’t ceased.
And now she’s lifting a sleepy head.“Wh?—?”
“Stay here,” I order and turn for the hall, not moving as quickly as I want—because fuckingstitches—but still doing it with urgency.
Because I’m going to murder whoever the fuck is on the other side.
“Huddy?”I hear as I move down the stairs, but I don’t stop.
Partly because I don’t want to argue with her.
Mostly because I’ve reached the end of the hall, stormed past the kitchen and family room, and my hand is on the doorknob.
I twist, yank it open.
And glare at the fucker who’s standing there, arm raised, hand clenched into a fist.
“Who the fuck are you?”he snaps, eyes flashing as he glares down at me.
“I could ask you the same question,” I say cooly, shifting to the side when he looks like he’s going to try to shove past me.
“What are you doing in my fiancée’s house?”he growls, stepping forward and literally bumping his chest against mine.
Seriously?
Thisis Jason?
Even if I didn’t know he was a complete and total asshole, one look at the fucker’s face would have confirmed it.
He’s objectively good-looking—I’m secure enough in myself to admit that much—but, pounding onmywoman’s door aside, I can tell he’s a prick.
Hair that looks like he spent an hour getting every strand right, jeans so tight I’m surprised he made it up the steps to actually start pounding on the front door, a button down that’s open to almost his navel…something that shows a pathetically little amount of chest hair.
“I mean,” I mutter, smirking at the fucker, “if you’re going to try and show it off, Lothario, you should decide if you’re in or out on the chest hair.”He sputters but I’m more in tune with the slightly hysterical laughter I hear behind me.“It’s patchy…and just not a good look,” I explain, slamming and locking the door on his face then turning to see that Dee has made her way downstairs, looking deliciously rumpled and sleep-mussed.“Go back to bed, sweetheart,” I tell her.“I’ll handle this asshole.”
The pounding starts up again.
She sighs.
And I really don’t like that fucking sigh.
I like her next words even less.
