Page 9 of Better Not Pout
Rosalie Sullivan has my full attention, whether I want it that way or not.
Her smart mouth, sharp tongue, curves that go on for days.
The woman who’s currently standing behind me in line at Frosty’s, the local coffee shop that’s become a daily morning stop for me, and I can practically feel her eyes boring daggers into the back of my head all the way up to the counter, where I order a large coffee, black, the only way to drink coffee, and the very last blueberry muffin.
I hear a sharp gasp behind me.
Oh, fuck, I forgot these seem to be her favorite, and it looks like I got the last one.
Whoops.
Yeah, I didn’t forget. I just love getting her riled up because damn, it is so easy to do.
And she looks so fucking hot with a scowl on those pouty lips.
The one thing I seem to be able to do right when it comes to her is piss her off, and not going to lie, it only makes me want to do it more.
The teenager working the counter slides me my steaming hot coffee and the muffin after I pay. Then, I plaster on a shit-eating grin before turning to face my new neighbor. “Morning, Rosalie. Oh, shit, did you want this?” I lift my muffin between us. “Sorry, gorgeous, I’m fucking starved. Have a good day.”
I shoot her a wink before brushing past, leaving her with her mouth hanging slightly open and her gloved hands fisted at her sides.
For the rest of the day, that smile doesn’t leave my face, and my neighbor with her sassy mouth is the one to blame for it.
Our run-ins throughout town continue to happen, and I love getting to poke and prod Rosalie when the opportunities arise. She is a simmering pot ready to boil over, and I am simply waiting for it to happen.
Turns out that moment happens three days later in the parking lot of the Mistletoe Mercantile, much to my delight.
“No. Hell no, Wells McCoy.” She seethes, clenching her teeth together as she narrows her gaze up at me, standing outside the door of my truck as I shut it behind me.
Shoving my keys into the pocket of my jeans, I lift a brow. “What? Are you the parking lot police now, Rosalie Sullivan?”
“Ha ha,” she says with a shake of her head. She’s got her hair down, the loose waves falling past her ample chest, with a cute little pink sweater on. One that accentuates her curves to the point that my mouth is watering. “You knew I was going to park there, and you swooped in and stole it.”
“Did I? I’m pretty sure I picked this parking spot because it’s cold as fuck out here, and it was closer to the store. Do you always go around accusing people of stealing shit from you? Seems to be a pattern,” I smart back as I brush past her toward the store.
Huffing, she falls into place beside me, although my strides are double hers, and she’s struggling to keep up with me. “Nope, that’s reserved just for you.”
“Flattered.”
Her eyes roll. “Lovely talking to you as always.”
“Ditto, beautiful. Oh, and by the way…” I walk off toward the back of the store, turning to look at her one last time and tossing over my shoulder, “You’re hot as fuck when you’re mad. Bothering you might just be my new favorite pastime.”
I keep walking and ignore the can of cranberries that lands by my feet.
four
. . .
Rosalie
Ghost of Christmas… Neighbors
How isit that I had absolutely no idea we were even getting a new neighbor, and now suddenly, he’severywhere?
Literally everywhere.
Iwishthat were an exaggeration, but it’s not.
