ME
Fuck off.
Merry Christmas.
* * *
After I get out of the shower, I shuffle down the hallway with a towel wrapped around my waist and warmth meets me halfway. The small wood stove is generating more heat than I expected. While Rosie finished taking her bath—and most likely finished herself off, though I’m fighting like hell to not think about that—I started a fire in the stove.
Rosie glances my way when I come down the hall and enter the kitchen with the adjoined living room. But she rolls her eyes and flicks her attention away quickly. Maybe she wasn’t lying. Maybe she really does hate me. Because she didn’t even do a fucking double-take seeing me standing here in only a towel.
Just as well. I can’t stand her either. And it will make our business with the cabin that much easier.
There’s music coming from somewhere in the cabin and she shakes her hips a bit while she mixes some ingredients in a bowl. As much as I don’t want to admit it; it’s sexy. It’s sexy as hell. The way her body sways as the male vocalist with a smooth tone sings about drinking whiskey. I’m suddenly thirsty.
While I’m desperate to stare at her while she unwinds, the last thing I want is her thinking I’m into her. Because yeah, she might be pretty but she’s still the enemy.
“Thanks for starting the fire,” she mumbles.
I rummage through my duffel for clean clothes. “How bad did that hurt?”
“What? The shin? It’s not that bad. Might be a bruise but?—”
“Not the shin. Thethank you,” I elaborate, tugging a Henley and a flannel from my bag.
She glares hard at me. “More than you’ll know.”
I chuckle and shake my head. I appreciate her honesty. And maybe even her smart-ass remark. The more time I spend with her, the more her personality grows on me. Though it shouldn’t. She’s not my type.
My last girlfriend was the pastor’s daughter. She was as perfect as you can get these days, I guess. She works as a teacher at one of the middle schools. She only had one sexual partner before me. The worst swear word I heard her say was hell.
I think her biggest sin was me.
When I spin around to catch a glimpse of Rosalie’s expression, I catch something else. She’s looking at me. Not just glancing, she’s full-blown checking me out. And something tells me she, wanted to get caught. Because she doesn’t even try to tear her gaze off my bare chest.
She’s ballsy, I’ll give her that.
Except I don’t want to give her the satisfaction and compliment her for anything.
So I break the tension and nudge my chin in her direction. “What are ya making?”
“Cinnamon rolls.”
I pinch my brows together. “Why?”
“You’re fucking joking, right? Because the question shouldn’t bewhycinnamon rolls, but the question should always be, whynotcinnamon rolls?”
My frown must deepen because she waves me off and mutters under her breath, “motherfucker doesn’t even like cinnamon rolls.”
I don’t respond and tug my Henley over my head.
“Cinnamon rolls are the best dessert,” she starts again.
“Aren’t they a breakfast food?”
“The magical thing about cinnamon rolls is you can enjoy them any time of the day.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” I put on my flannel and do up a few of the buttons.
