Rules Of Engagement

30

“Unless you want me to kick down the door, I need a key.”

She cracks open an eye and peers up at me. “I’m not falling asleep. I’m trying to stop the world from spinning so much.” “Fascinating. Key?”

Using one hand, she digs around in the small purse slung across her body by a dainty leather strap. She comes up with a single key attached to a ceramic keychain. It’s made in the shape of a Harry Potter character.

When I stare at it too long, she says, “Don’t look at Hagrid like that. You’ll hurt his feelings. He’s very soft-hearted.”

I say thickly, “I know.” She’s a Potterhead.

Because of course she would be. Of course she’d be a fan of the books that saved my sanity as a kid and gave me the only relief I had from the s**t show of my adolescence.

Because the universe loves nothing more than to test me over and over and over to see how much I can take before I break.

Swallowing around the lump in my throat, I stand near enough to the handle so she can reach down and insert the key. The door opens, and I nudge it open wider with my knee.

Then I carry my own personal kryptonite across the threshold, my resolve to do the right thing and stay away from her crumbling with every step.

15

MADDIE

S

o maximum humiliation has been achieved, and it only took a quick midday visit to a dive bar to do it.

Me (staring awkwardly): Mason, er, um, do you only like young women with big boobs?

Translation: Could you possibly like a dorky, uptight, flat-chested librarian who’s constantly barking about your bad manners and to whom you’ve given exactly zero hint that you might be attracted to, aside from the fact that you stared at her mouth while examining her Meth Addict Barbie pink lipstick?

Mason (choking back vomit): Yes, I only like young women with big boobs. Mute’s good, too.

Translation: You think I’d be interested in old, prim, celibate, opinionated, cat-loving, bunwearing, pink-obsessed you? Gross.

Me: Commence dying of embarrassment, interrupted at regular intervals by rude bodily noises.

Yes, it’s been a whopper of a day already, and it’s not even tea time. Maybe next Bettina will set my house on fire, just to keep the good times rolling.

She’d be doing me a favor. I wouldn’t even try to save myself. I’d just lie here on the sofa and cry while I burned.

I’m peeved at the way he looked at my Hagrid keychain, though. You’d think it was naked and vibrating for the way he sneered at it. “Here. Drink this.”

I flip down the corner of the blanket I pulled over my face when Mason laid me on the sofa a few moments ago. He sits on the coffee table across from me, holding a glass of water in his hand, looking huge and handsome and hot.

“It’ll help the hangover you’re brewing, Pink. You need to stay hydrated.”

I concentrate on not slurring my words. “I’m not thirsty, thank you.” Then I flip the blanket up again, wishing he’d leave so I could be alone with my crushing shame.

What on earth made me ask him that question?

The idea he’d be attracted to me is ridiculous, as is the idea that I’d care if he’s attracted to me or not. I don’t care. He’s not my type. I’m not his type. The two of us have nothing in common.

Even if we did, he’s my client! I have a strict rule about not getting involved with clients, or discussing my personal life with them. I’ve never broken that rule before. Never. I’m a professional, first and foremost. I’m a rock. I’m an impenetrable fortress. I never let down my guard.

Except with this grouchy, egotistical beast of a man who frequently makes me want to put my hands around his thick neck and squeeze the life right out of him.

“It doesn’t matter if you’re thirsty or not,” the beast is growling. “You need to drink the water.

Now.”

I mutter, “Stubborn much?”

“Trust me, I have a lot of experience with hangovers.”

I want to say something tart about other things he has a lot of experience with, but keep my mouth shut. I’ve done enough damage for one day already.

Besides, I shouldn’t judge him. There’s no reason he shouldn’t enjoy himself with the ladies. He’s young, single, and rich. Topped off by gorgeous. It’s a lethal combination. I’m surprised he doesn’t have a woman crawling out of his underwear right now.

I flip down the blanket and prop myself up on an elbow. Then I take the glass of water from his hand and force myself to drink the whole thing.

Then I burp again, because God hates me.

“Not a word,” I warn when Mason’s lip twitch. I take the empty glass back under the blanket with me.

When several moments later I hear sniffing, I say, “What are you doing?” “Seeing if I can detect the scent of roses.” “Shut up.” More sniffing.

“Mason.” “Yeah?”

“You do realize that if I murder you, there’s no jury in the world that would convict me, right?”

“You don’t wanna murder me. I’m too much fun.”

“Fun? Is that what we’re having? It feels more like torture.”

“You’re the one who said your innards smell like roses, Pink. You can’t dangle that out there and not expect me to take the bait.”

“Point taken. Remind me never to tell you anything personal again.”

“You don’t have to get all snippy.”

“I’m not getting snippy!”