Page 80 of Ice Wolf
“I told you not to call me that.”
“Would you prefer my sweet muffin?”
With my hand clenched into a fist, I held it in front of his face. He acted as if I’d thrown the punch, even falling on the bed with his arms splayed out. Even that little maneuver didn’t take away how handsome he was.
This was more than a nightmare.
I quickly glanced toward the open door leading to the bathroom. “I’m going to take a shower. When I return, I hope you will have found another place to sleep in this giant house.”
“You heard my mom,” he retorted.
“Surely, there’s a vacant couch you can sleep on because I’m definitely not sleeping with you.”
“A little late for that, wouldn’t you say, Lily flower?” Did I detect some sort of strange but sensual growl laced in his words?
No way was he getting to me, at least where he’d be able to detect how unnerved I was. I moved toward the dresser, throwing open the bottom drawer. After snatching a blanket, I grabbed one pillow off the bed, tossing both in his direction. With no other choice but to wear the jersey, I tossed my hair across my back, grabbed my purse, and stormed toward the bathroom, instantly closing the door behind me.
Tantrums couldn’t occur, at least not while his parents were being so nice as to allow us to stay here. I shoved the shirt over the towel rack, glaring at myself in the mirror. Right now, I notonly hated my reflection, I hated everything I’d portrayed myself to be.
In front of millions of people.
Curse words of epic proportion slipped past my lips as I threw open the shower curtain, grateful to find two different bottles of shower gel, both in feminine fragrances. I hoped Saint hated strawberries because I was going to slather my body with the scent. There were also shampoos and conditioner bottles as well. Thank God for small favors.
At least I wouldn’t smell like a beer can all night long. Maybe things were looking up. The Masters family had even installed a Waterpik. Maybe Saint was right about something after all. A nice massage was in order, but not by his muscular hands and long fingers. I had to draw the line somewhere.
Thank God for large purses. I dug through my bag searching for the sample-sized toothpaste and toothbrush I always carried. Just in case. I could never know when the need would arise, and I required fresh, minty breath. I furiously brushed my teeth, taking out my aggression on the poor, defenseless plastic. At least doing so made me feel better.
After shoving the kit back into my purse, I allowed my curiosity to get the better of me. I just had to look at the screen on my phone. Didn’t I? There were dozens of notifications. I continued scrolling down, down, and down.
And down.
They kept coming. Blip after blip. I tried to read them, but they were flying in too fast. I chewed on my bottom lip, cringing deep inside as I unlocked my passcode, smashing my finger on the Instagram icon. Saint’s page pulled up immediately.
As soon as I clicked on the notifications, my stomach did flipflops. The first one was a photograph he’d been tagged in. The picture itself wasn’t bad, at least not really. It was beautifully shot by a professional camera with a zoom lens. The photographer had caught the very moment when Saint had exclaimed I was his fiancée.
His face was serene, incredibly handsome, and as if he was the happiest man in the world.
Mine?
Well, let’s just say it appeared I was thinking about spending hours in my gynecologist’s office with my feet in stirrups with the door left standing wide open on a busy day. The optics were horrifying.
Even worse?
There were over two million likes and at least seventeen thousand comments. Seventeen thousand. There was no chance in hell I could sell this as anything but what it was.
A fake relationship meant for propaganda.
My stomach lurched and I was fearful all the prayers in the world wouldn’t keep me from retasting the nasty hotdog over and over again.
The fight videos didn’t have nearly the social media presence. Something to be thankful for?
No. I could turn it off. I had the self-control. I was a big girl and a professional. This was a simple blip, a challenge that could easily be overcome. Somehow. Someway.
Maybe it would take hell freezing over, but I was tenacious. Thankfully, I managed to toss my phone into the bottom of my bag before succumbing to another glimpse of the nightmare that was my life.
With my teeth clenched, I stripped off my clothes, tossing everything into a pile in the corner. Maybe I should be grateful the jersey his mother had provided was so large. I certainly had no intention of sliding back into my thong. The reason why was personal. Very personal. And had everything to do with Saint and his gorgeous smile and glistening eyes. Even the dimples on his cheeks were to blame.
How was it possible I was aroused by thinking about him when he thoroughly enjoyed pressing every button with me? The man became even more infuriating the longer I was forced to be around him.
