Fangs, Fate & Other Bad Decisions novel Chapter 8

He might be pretty, but he’s a real dickhead.

Since the moment he opened his pretentious, conceited, and boorish mouth, I’ve had numerous thoughts running through my mind about how to get either rid of him in the next five minutes or how to dispose of his body after I’ve strangled him. The jury is still out on which one I’m going for.

I’m well aware that I’m not the next Top Chef candidate, but him looking at the soup I’ve made especially for him just pisses me the fuck off.

I rescued his ass, tended to his wounds, gave him someplace safe to recuperate, and this is his way of showing gratitude? And don’t think I didn’t notice he didn’t, in actual fact, say thank you earlier. He evaded that topic like an arachnophobic would evade the spider exhibit at the zoo.

With the few words I’ve spoken to him so far, I’m highly confident I know exactly what type of person he is.

size of a

His comment about how much his shirt costs tells me he is rich and likes to spend his money on frivolities. His house is probably

y the si small country, he has six private jets, his toilet paper has gold flakes embedded between its 18 layers, and he eats Beluga caviar as a bedtime snack while sipping his 50–year–old Macallan whiskey..

He hasn’t been willing to thank me for my help last night, which tells me he’s rude and more than likely thinks he’s better than others. He’s probably the boss of some investment firm where the women all look like blonde, stick–thin Stepford wives who will “yes, sir” and “no, sir” him all day, every day. He undoubtedly fires someone for looking his way when he steps out of the elevator in the morning.

The way he almost constantly scowls makes me believe he is a broody, fun–hating sourpuss, I would eat the cowboy hat I don’t even own if you can prove to me he has smiled once, just once, in his whole life. I highly doubt he’s ever had fun, like watching a movie, eating ice cream on the pier, or going paintball shooting. That stuff is probably things heathens and plebs do, in his opinion. It wouldn’t surprise me if he ate kittens for breakfast and stole candy from kids to make them cry so his cold, dead heart could bear faster, making him feel somewhat alive.

I have news for him, though. He can forget about me bowing down to him, worshipping at his feet, and editing everything I say to avoid offending him. I’m a walking, talking, sassy, lippy, cheeky red flag who thrives on chaos and mayhem.

And I sure a shit am going to enjoy making his life a living hell by not being another one of his mindless minions, Muahahaha!

After helping him to sit up, I push the bowl of soup into his hands before walking out, throwing over my shoulder, “Eat it, don’t eat it. It’s no skin off my teeth. I’ll go find you something to wear.”

I need to get away from him because I might sew his mouth shut if he says another idiotic thing. And I need to cover that glorious torso of his because I’m having trouble remembering how to breathe with all those muscles and golden skin on display. Ugh, it’s so unfair that someone so attractive can be such a jackass.

Earlier, I threw on a pair of my comfiest yoga pants and an oversized T–shirt that I found at the local Salvation Army thrift store. It has seen me through many a night of sad romcoms, break–ups, and Aunt Flo visits. I’m sure if Mr. Broody downstairs had to hear the origin of this shirt, his head would explode.

The only clean shirt I have that might fit him is a grey T–shirt with the word “Army” I found in the donation box at the bookstore one day. The feel of the material and the size made me surreptitiously slip it into my bag. There were more than enough other items that day that one shirt wouldn’t have made a difference.

Women’s T–shirts never fit me right. They’re always too short and made for women with B cups and a waist as thin as a take. My E cups and hips, which sometimes struggle to fit into an economy class seal, require way more room than those hand towels the retailers want to brand as “T- shirts for the larger figure.”

Grabbing said shirt from my chest of drawers, I head back downstairs. He’s sitting in the same spot I left him, the bowl clutched in his left hand and his right hand spooning the soup towards his mouth. A drop falls just before reaching his mouth and lands on his chin. And when he wipes it up with his thumb, my mind goes berserk.

What would it feel like to lick that drop from his chin? Would ins skin be rough underneath my tongue from the five o’clock shadow he’s sporting? Or would I prefer using my own thumb to catch the drop so I can suck my finger clean while holding eye contact with him?

Shaking my head to clear my wayward thoughts, I step closer and throw the shirt on the couch beside him. “That should fit,” I say as I walk past him towards the bay window seat I need some distance from him for my own sanity. Just because I can’t stand the guy doesn’t mean I don’t want to jump his bones.

He glowers at the shirt and places the presumably empty bowl on the coffee table before him, slightly wincing when he straightens up. “I’m not wearing another man’s cheap shirt.

“It’s either that, or I can find you a garbage bag. If you want to stay longer in my house, you’ll follow my rules,” I shrug, not giving a rat’s ass if he thinks I’m demanding. I need a barrier between my eyes and his glorious body. My sanity depends on it. What sanity, Harley? Okay, fair point.

Still scowling, he unfolds the shirt, slides it over his head, slips his arms through the sleeves, and pulls it down so it’s neat and straight. I didn’t anticipate that it would fit him like that. It’s tight across his chest and loose at the waist. I now regret not giving him the garbage bag instead.

He looks down before asking,

with a look of confusion on his face.

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