Page 6 of Boyfriend From Hell
“They’re contacts?” he said, his tone rhetorical. “So, can I use your phone for a sec, or should I try a different, more... uh, non-confrontational neighbor who won’t question me about the way I look?” He regarded me with an expression that said nothing other than ‘WTF is wrong with this woman?’ anddropped his eyes to the bottle of wine I was holding like an infant.
I chewed the inside of my cheek, as he continued eying the half-drunk bottle of wine, which I was still cradling like a newborn. His perfectly arched eyebrow raised in wait for my reply. I was being an outright bitch, and I knew it, just taking out my unresolved post-breakup anger on the first man that breathed near me. He clearly just needed a bit of help, and there was no reason for me to not help.
I hung my head in solemn embarrassment and self-loathing shame.
“Yeah, yes. I’m sorry, it’s been a shit day. Wait here a sec.” I grumbled, not able to meet his eyes.
Frantically, I scrambled away and set my precious wine bottle down haphazardly on the tiny entry table. By the time I stepped away toward my phone I heard the heart-breaking sound of my one saving grace shattering against the floor.
Perfect.
I turned to jog back to my neighbor and found him kneeling down picking up the glass shards. He froze as he noticed he had—albeit in a kind gesture sort of way—invited himself inside.
“Sorry,” he started. “It felt weird to just stand there and stare at the broken glass. And by the sound of it, you already have enough going on, so—”
“No, no—thanks. You don’t have to help. This is kind of you, but seriously…” I held out my phone. “Here.”
He glanced at the device, then down at his hands full of glass. “Right! God, I’m so sorry for being such a shit show. This is embarrassing, let me grab a bag.” Once again, I frantically scrambled away toward the kitchen and snagged the first bag I saw.
When I returned there was a pile of glass on the entryway table along with the half-broken bottle. I handed him the phone as he gingerly brushed his wine-stained hands against his jeans. Guilt struck me and I cringed. To be fair, it seemed like this guy was having a decidedly worse day than me. Got locked out of his apartment, asked a neighbor for help (who just so happened to be nothing short of a whole ass bitch in return), then picked glass off the floor in attempt to be nice, just to get wine-stained fingers and jeans—and more than likely a few glass shards lodged in his skin.
He gave me a small nod and a pleasant smile that seemed far too kind, given the situation, and held up a finger to me, signaling he’d be a minute and walked out my door.
Get it together, Deer! I rolled my eyes at myself and began sliding the glass into the bag.
Somehow, we ended up on the couch—two wine bottles stolen from my stash of sadness drained, Supernatural playing in the background. Apparently, the call to the landlord went straight to voicemail, and no locksmiths were available at eight o’clock at night. Who knew? Gracie would be rolling over in her metaphoric grave if she could see me right now.
“So, are you going to tell me your name or are you just going to sit there and drink all of my wine?” I asked to fill the silence.
He chuckled and took a sip from his glass. “Raios.”
“Raios?” I repeated.
“And yours?” he asked, tilting his head.
Those scarlet eyes caressed their way across my face, lingering on my lips for a moment.
“Deer,” I stated, my mouth suddenly dry.
“Deer?”
His brows pulled together, and he had no reason to look so hot making such a simple expression.
“Like the animal?”
A nervous laugh bubbled from me and I nodded,taking a sip.
He smiled and I couldn’t help but stare, despite his… uhm off-putting contact lens choices, he was hot. Drop dead gorgeous, really.
“And what is it that you do for work, Deer?” He tilted his head the other way as if I were the most interesting thing in the world and flashed me a line of perfectly white teeth.
Oh, so we’re really doing this whole small-talk-get-to-know-each other thing.
I wet my lips, suppressing the impulsive urge to recoil. That has always been my least favorite question.
“Oh, I uh, write,” I said, avoiding his warm stare.
It always felt so weird saying that out loud, people either thought it was the coolest thing on the planet or they thought it was… well, they usually had some condescending shit to say, to put it lightly. Followed by the ever-famous question of ‘have you written anything I’ve heard of?’ to which the answer was usually a sobering no.
