8. Eight

8

EIGHT

W ho knew one week—seven measly days—could feel so long?

I’d only been a husband for one week and I was already in Dateline territory. That’s how much I wanted to kill my new wife.

On one hand, Olivia was a relatively quiet roommate. She enjoyed reading and spent all of her time curled up on the couch with whatever romance book had struck her fancy that particular day. Yeah, she read a book a day. Who does that?

It wasn’t the books that bothered me, although some of the covers and titles threw me. It was weird. Some of the covers featured cartoon characters and innocuous titles like Book Lovers and Fangirl Down . Some of the raunchier ones were full of bare-chested men with sweaty abs and suggested she try to find a Scotsman to stab her with a sword. Not the one on the battlefield either.

That wasn’t my biggest problem. I could handle the books. They were weird, sometimes annoying, but they were still books. No, my biggest problem was that Olivia was a freaking pig. Never in my entire life had I met such a small person who could leave such a big mess.

“Seriously?” I strode into the living room, stared down my book-reading wife, and gestured toward the pile of dishes on the coffee table. “Are you trying to see if you can use every dish in the penthouse before washing it?”

She flicked her eyes up without lowering the book. She still read paperbacks, even though I’d suggested that an eReader was a better option for clutter purposes alone. Once she was finished with a book, she left it on the end table. The stack was starting to get high.

“I’ll get to it,” was all she said. Her attention was back on the book.

Annoyed, I grabbed the dishes and carried them into the kitchen. I was huffy. I never got huffy, but she brought out the absolute worst in me for some reason.

“I don’t understand how hard it is to put dishes in the dishwasher.” I made slamming noises as I rinsed the dishes and stuck them in the unit. “You don’t even have to wash the room service dishes. You just have to put them outside the door and housekeeping will pick them up.”

I glared at her as I carried a tray full of room service deliveries to the front door. With exaggerated slowness, I opened the door and waited until she looked at me.

Her gaze was steady over the top of the book as I showed her with precise movements how to put the tray outside the door. Then I let the door fall shut. It was heavy and caused a thunderous echo.

“Feel better?” she asked in her annoying way. She’d been like this the entire week. It was as if she was trying to teach me a lesson. What lesson that was I couldn’t fathom, but my annoyance was through the roof.

“We have housekeepers changing our bedding every three days,” I reminded her. “They dust. They do the floors. I don’t understand how hard it is for you to pick up your dishes.”

She blinked, then shrugged. “I said I would do it.” She was back to reading her book.

Annoyed, I stomped over and grabbed the book from her hands, ignoring the protesting sound she made. “ It Happened One Summer ,” I read aloud. “What’s this one about?”

“A Los Angeles party girl gets in trouble and has to move to a fishing village,” Olivia replied. “She finds herself and a hot man.”

“And this is what you want to read?” I was flabbergasted.

“Don’t judge.” She snagged the book back. “It’s very good. It’s poignant and funny. The guy in it starts out as a grump but turns into a great partner. You should take some lessons from him.”

“I am not a grump.”

“If the trash can fits.” She pretended to go back to reading. I knew she was pretending because she wasn’t flipping pages.

“What does a trash can have to do with anything?” I demanded.

She made a face. “Um … Oscar the Grouch. Wait.” She held up a hand. “Did you not watch Sesame Street as a kid? That kind of fits. Your parents would not be the type to embrace PBS.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I was getting incredibly riled up.

“It means that you were never poor. You didn’t have to watch public access television. I bet your parents actually hired people to do puppet shows just for you.”

That was the most ludicrous thing I’d ever heard. “First off, puppets are creepy.”

“I’m a big fan of Grover.”

I pretended she hadn’t spoken. “Secondly, my parents weren’t big on sitting us in front of the television.”

“Because your nanny took you to the park.” The way she said it, I knew it was an insult.

“That’s neither here nor there. I’m not a grouch. In fact, most people think I’m a joy to be around.”

She snorted. “Those people don’t have to live with you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” If she was trying to get under my skin, she was doing a really good job of it.

“Let’s just say that you’re no Jack Tripper.”

“Who is Jack Tripper?” With every statement, I was getting more and more corked up.

“From Three’s Company .”

I just blinked.

“It was a television show from the 70s.”

“You watch a television show from fifty years ago?” I couldn’t wrap my head around that in the slightest.

She shrugged. “My mom used to watch it with my grandmother. Before she went to the home. She has Alzheimer’s.”

I frowned. Rex might’ve mentioned that. “I’m sorry.”

“She kind of lives in the past now, so when I visit, I watch episodes with her, just like my mom. She loved Jack Tripper.”

“I still don’t know who that is.”

“He lived in an apartment with two women. Janet and Chrissy. The landlord didn’t believe in men and women living together unless they were married, so Jack pretended to be gay.” She broke off. “Huh, you know, when I think about it, the show was pretty insulting to gay people. It was still really funny, and Jack was an awesome roommate, but it was definitely insulting.”

I planted my hands on my hips. “I guess that means you don’t think I’m an awesome roommate.”

“Not even a little,” she agreed. “You have too many annoying quirks.”

Well, this should be good. “And what annoying quirks are you referring to?”

“You clip your toenails in the living room and don’t pick up after yourself.”

“I only do that the day before the maids come.”

“Ah, so it’s their job to pick up your discarded toenails.”

“They vacuum right up!”

“You also use way too much aftershave. Your bedroom is at the opposite side of the suite from my bedroom, and I can still smell you an hour after you’ve left.”

“That’s Sauvage.”

She didn’t respond.

“By Dior,” I pressed. “I’ll have you know that Sauvage is like catnip for women. They can’t stop themselves from rubbing all over me when I wear it.”

“That’s the Ralph Lauren suit you wear to work. They don’t care about the aftershave. They just care that your wallet is as thick as your head.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I have a great personality. People are attracted to me because of that.”

“Yes, women take one look at you across the casino floor and say ‘what a great personality’ before you’ve even said a word. That’s exactly how that works.”

My glare grew more pronounced. “Don’t change the subject. We’re talking about your refusal to pick up after yourself.”

“I didn’t refuse. I said I would do it later.”

I growled.

She smiled.

“What about a job?” I suggested, changing the subject out of the blue. “You’ve been sitting up here reading ridiculous romance novels for a week. I thought you were trying to figure out something to do with your life.”

That must have been the exact wrong thing to say because she finally lowered the book.

“Are you suggesting I’m lazy?” she challenged.

Was that a nerve? Apparently, I’d struck a nerve. Well, good. That’s exactly what I was going for.

“I’m not saying you’re lazy,” I countered. “I’m saying you’re not doing anything. I get that you were recovering from your surgery for a few days—although that did not stop you from hitting the bar less than twenty-four hours after you went under the knife so you and Tallulah could flirt it up—but you’re fine now. You could be looking for a job.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’m not working in the cage.”

Where had that come from? “I didn’t suggest you work in the cage. I can ask the head of the accounting department?—”

“I’ll find my own job.” Her voice was unnaturally squeaky now. “I’m not a deadbeat. I’m not here to float or live off you or anything.”

Something told me I should stop now and let it go. I couldn’t seem to manage that. “This doesn’t look like you getting a job.”

She slammed down the book and got to her feet. Her eyes were full of fire. “I’ll go polish up my resumé right now.”

“That sounds like a productive way to start the day.”

She glared at me for the entire walk to her room. “I’m not lazy.”

Why was that a freaking trigger? “I didn’t say you were. I just thought … maybe…” There was nothing I could say here to ratchet down the fire simmering between us. “You know what? You do whatever you want. Me? I’m going to work.” I stomped toward the door a second time. “Have fun with your fake romance heroes. Just know, you’re never going to find someone like that in the real world.”

“Thanks for your input.” She slammed her bedroom door.

I stared after her for a long time. I could’ve followed her and demand we hash out our issues. It was going to be a long year if things kept up like this. Instead, I shook my head and moved toward the exit. If I kept fighting with her, things were going to explode. We might not be able to walk things back if we got to that place. “I’m going to work,” I yelled toward the door.

I couldn’t be certain, but I was convinced I’d heard a growl of some sort on the other side. How could she be angry with me? I didn’t get it.

I didn’t say anything else. I headed out. If she wanted to pout, then she could pout. I didn’t care. She was being a baby. I hadn’t gotten into this to be married to a petulant pouter. No sirree. She was going to have to shape up … and fast.

WHEN LUNCHTIME ROLLED AROUND AND Olivia had ignored three of my makeup texts—I was curious if she’d calmed down and wanted me to talk to someone in the accounting department after all—full-on guilt had set in.

She wasn’t lazy. Heck, if I’d gotten dental surgery, I would’ve demanded a nurse see to my every need for a minimum of two weeks. It was the mess bothering me more than anything else. I’d grown up in a house where mess was frowned upon. I had a toy room and all my toys were expected to stay in that room. Clutter made me itchy, even if it was just books and dishes.

When she ignored my fourth text, I made up my mind to force the issue. If we weren’t talking, that penthouse was going to get mighty small mighty fast. With that in mind, I picked up subs from the sandwich shop—they were fancy subs of course—and headed upstairs. We were going to hash this out one way or the other.

The penthouse was quiet when I let myself in. Too quiet.

Olivia wasn’t on the couch. The book she’d been reading was gone. There wasn’t a dish in sight.

Had she gone out? A weird stab of disappointment coursed through me. It wasn’t as if I was looking forward to fighting with her. I just didn’t want things to fester. We had a year to spend together. If things didn’t get better between us, it was going to be a torturous year.

“Livvie?” I called out.

Nobody responded. The penthouse was deadly quiet.

I dropped the sandwich bag on the coffee table and headed toward her bedroom. I didn’t have to knock—the door was open—and when I glanced inside I found her bed was neatly made. The maids didn’t come until the following day—I could’ve requested a visit every day but that was unnecessary—which meant that she was making her own bed. Did she do that every day?

The book she’d been reading was on the bed. I moseyed over to get a look at it up close. She had a bookmark in place, and I was careful not to move it. When I opened to where she’d left off, I almost dropped the book because it was clear she’d stopped in the middle of what could only be described as an intense sex scene.

“What the hell?” I found I was interested despite myself and flipped the page. “Nice,” was all I could say when I imagined the moves that were being described. “Very nice.”

For a moment, I pictured myself doing those moves to Olivia. It was me pressing her against the wall and her scratching my back while making mewling noises in my ear. The image was so visceral I dropped the book on the bed, and immediately lost her place.

“Shit.” I grabbed the book and started searching for where she’d been. If the bookmark wasn’t in the place she’d left it, then she would know I was reading the book. She wouldn’t see it as innocent curiosity. No, she wouldn’t ever let me hear the end of it.

I was still searching when I registered a clacking sound in the back of my mind. I didn’t immediately react. Then I heard a gasp, and I had no choice but to swivel quickly.

There she was, exiting her bathroom. She had a towel wrapped around her hair in one of those turban deals, but she was buck naked otherwise.

My eyes didn’t know where to go. Instinctively, I knew that staring would be frowned upon, but all thought of propriety went out the window as I cataloged her finer qualities—of which there were many—from head to toe.

“Holy crap,” was all I could say.

“Omigod!” She tried to cover both her lower and upper bits with her hands but it was too late. I’d seen everything.

“I’m so sorry,” I said dumbly. I should’ve left. Part of me recognized that. I continued to stare, though.

“Get out!” she screeched.

That was enough to snap me out of my reverie. Well, mostly. “Um…” Why was I still standing here? For the love of all that’s holy, man, get out of her bedroom!

“Get out!” Her voice elevated another octave, and she turned, giving me a full view of her rounded backside. I couldn’t decide if I liked the front or back better. Heck, I liked both views.

“What is wrong with you?” She disappeared back into the bathroom and slammed the door hard enough to rattle the art on the wall.

The noise finally had me coming back to reality. “I brought sandwiches,” I said like an absolute idiot. “I wanted to make up.”

To my surprise, the bathroom door opened and Olivia’s head became visible, along with her bare shoulders. She’d hidden the rest of herself behind the door. “Are you a pervert or something?”

“No.” I scoffed at the notion. “It was an accident.”

She pointed toward the book in my hand. “Really? It was an accident that you were reading that and just happened to be waiting for me to come out of the shower?”

“I didn’t know you were in the shower.” That was true. I thought she’d left. “I was just… I…” I dropped the book on the bed. “I should probably get out of here.” I said it more to myself than her. I’d just realized how very bad this was going to go.

“Oh, you think?” Olivia’s eyes were as wide as saucers.

“Sorry.” I meant it. Or maybe I didn’t. Slowly, I unleashed the same smile I reserved for the showgirls I used to try to entice here and there. “If it’s any consolation, it was a nice break from my day.”

“You did not just say that!”

Oh, but I had said it. I’d meant it too. “I’ll leave your sub on the coffee table.” To my utter surprise, I was smiling when I left her bedroom. Sure, I’d invaded her privacy, but my day was clearly looking up. “Have fun with your book.”

“You read it, didn’t you?” she hissed at my back.

I laughed. There was nothing else I could do. “Have a good afternoon, Shortypants.”

“Stop calling me that!”

“Fine. Good luck with your resumé tweaking, Squirt.”

She let loose a low scream which was almost enough to have me turning to see if I could get another glimpse of her naked and wet body. Honestly, I hadn’t expected for the view to be so glorious. She was still short but completely proportional. She had nice breasts that weren’t too big or too small. Her hips had a pronounced curve to them, as did her ass. She was basically perfect.

That’s going to be a problem, my inner voice warned . Now that you know that, you’re not going to be able to get her out of your head.

I ruthlessly pushed that idea away. It was fine. It was just something else to tease her over. Right?

Right?