Rules Of Engagement

32

“Number one,” I say evenly, staring him down, “if you ever speak about yourself like that in front of me again, I’ll fire you, and then I’ll smack you silly.” “You’ll fire me,” he repeats, astonished.

“Be quiet. I wasn’t finished. Number two, if you’d stop being so hard on yourself and look at things with some perspective, you’d realize you’re no worse than anyone else. Or better, for that matter. You’ve got your good points and your bad points like the rest of us, but you’re not a pedophile or a serial killer or a guy who cuts the tails off puppies.”

I pause, realizing I don’t know that for sure. “Right?”

His expression sours. “And you were on such a roll.”

“Right. Number three, just because I give you a compliment doesn’t mean I’m ‘romanticizing’ you. Friends can tell each other nice things—” “Friends,” he challenges, eyes flashing.

“Fine, business associates. Whatever you want to call it, we’re going to be friendly with each other. We’re going to have a cordial working relationship—”

“There’s that word again,” he mutters, rubbing his forehead.

“—because I’m trying to help you,” I say over him, “with what you asked me to help you with. Fourth and finally, can we please agree that neither of us is each other’s type and there’s no flirting or attraction of any sort going on so we can get on with it and find you a wife?”

He tilts his head, examining me with narrowed eyes. “You said you weren’t recruiting women for me anymore.”

I grimace. “That was an unfortunate turn of phrase.”

“So you changed your mind?”

I swing my legs over the edge of the couch and try to ignore the prison riot breaking out inside my stomach. “Everyone deserves a happily-ever-after, especially people who don’t believe in them.” He stares at me, thinking so hard he’s about to burst a vein.

With my final shred of dignity, I say, “Now, if you’ll please excuse me, I need to get to a sink before my Eggs Benedict reappear.”

I stand, wobble into the kitchen, and promptly throw up into the sink.

Instantly, Mason is there beside me. He sets a warm, steadying hand between my shoulder blades as I retch.

“That’s an insane amount of food,” he comments nonchalantly, as if I’m not barfing up my intestines along with several other important organs. I think I see my liver in between the mess of bright yellow yolks and soggy clumps of muffin.

Another wave of nausea hits, producing another violent retch, followed by a stream of undigested Canadian bacon. Or it could be a lung. It’s hard to tell, my eyes are watering too much from the alcohol fumes.

“I’m so gonna use this against you later,” says Mason, sounding tickled by the prospect.

Shaking and panting and still bending over the sink, I say hoarsely, “If you do, I’ll set you up with a girl who secretly loves the Patriots, and you’ll have to listen to her call out Tom Brady’s name in bed.”

“Wow, that was evil! Good for you, Pink. I didn’t think you had it in you.” “Yes, you better watch out. I’m chock full of evilness.” “And vomit,” he says as I retch again.

When it’s all over and I’m slumped against the counter, sweaty and disheveled and moaning faintly like a ghost, Mason says cheerfully, “Hey, when are you gonna introduce me to your cats?” If I don’t end up stabbing this man repeatedly with a sharp object, I’ll be shocked. When I lift my head and glare at him, he chuckles.

“You’re cute when you’re contemplating murder.”

“Call me cute one more time and see how far you can get with smashed kneecaps.”

He says innocently, “I thought friends were allowed to compliment one another?”

“Are you always this subversive, or am I special?”

“I have no idea what you mean,” he says, still with that air of innocence, though it’s obvious he’s lying.

“You’re lucky that in my post-vomity state, I’m too weak to kick you in the shin.”

He rubs a slow circle over my back. He voice turns soft, and so do his eyes. “You’re not gonna kick me in the shin, tiny violent one. Now do you want me to help you to your bedroom, or do you wanna go lie back on the couch?”

“Bedroom, I think. But I don’t need any hel—”

Mason does a ninja-quick bendy move and picks me up in his arms. Too wrung out to protest, I rest my head on his broad shoulder and try not to breathe barf fumes into his face.

“You’re never going to listen to a thing I say, are you?”

“Of course I am. Here, let me prove it to you: where’s your bedroom?”

“Down the hall and to the left. But directions don’t count.”

He strides out of the kitchen, carrying me as if I’m as light as air. “Directions totally count.” “They don’t.”

“Do so.”

“You’re proving my point here, Sparky.”

“I don’t know how I feel about that nickname.” He turns the corner into my bedroom, being careful not to bang my feet against the door frame.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It sounds kinda Christmasy.”

“Bah humbug. ”

“I just don’t wanna be called a name that sounds like it belongs on an elf or a reindeer, that’s all.” “But elves and reindeer are adorable!”

“Exactly. I don’t do adorable. You wanna call me Thor or Rambo, go right ahead.”