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I hear the door close as I’m stepping out and wrapping a huge fluffy towel around myself. I use a second, smaller towel to wrap up my long dark hair. Even though the scent of pizza calls and makes my stomach grumble, I still take a minute to put on my face cream before exiting the bathroom.
With the door open, the pizza smells even more amazing and my stomach growls expectantly. Fuck yeah. Cheesy pizza is life. I’m never going to be one of those rabbit food nibbling waifs, nor am I simply blessed with good genetics that allow me to eat what I want and remain thin as a rake. I work bloody hard for my body, not because I want to look good, but because I want to be able to eat all the cheese fondue and cheese pizza and cheese and crackers in the world, and not be mistaken for the actual wheel of cheese in the annual Cooper’s Hill event.
It’s my lifelong goal to take part and actually win one year. Nine pounds of Double Gloucester cheesy creaminess is the stuff of dreams. I’ll readily throw myself down a two-hundred-yard long uneven hill for the chance at taking home that bad boy. As someone wise once said, sweet dreams are made of cheese.
So, thanks to my obsessive grocery shopping habits and the fact that there’s an amazing delicatessen down the road that sells cheese wedding “cakes” that I purchase a couple of times a year for my single-arse self, I have to hit the gym a fair few times a week.
Could I cut out the cheese and skip the elliptical? Absolutely. But what is a life without cheese? I have so many cheese jokes and puns it’s unreal. And one day, a guy is going to love me for them, not in spite of them.
I’m pulled from my fromage fantasies by the sight of someonewho is not Bob,standing in my kitchen,eating my four cheese with extra cheese fucking pizza.
More pissed about the pizza than anything else, I snarl, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing here?”
ChapterTwo
Lycus
Ican’t decide if I want to kiss or throttle her, so I shove the pizza into my mouth, while I contemplate how best to answer her question.
What the fuckdoI think I’m doing? Why the hell am I at her house when she’s been the bane of my existence for the past six months solid, but I’m still completely and utterly obsessed with her?
There’s a huge age gap between us – I know because I snuck a look at her file – and I have no right even looking at her, let alone obsessing over her the way I have been.
Why am I still so preoccupied with her when she’s made it perfectly clear that she can barely fucking tolerate me? Why did I think – after three quarters of a bottle of Jack – that this was a good idea?
It’s not even the first time I’ve snuck into her apartment, but it is my first time getting caught.
I frown at the pizza.
There’s something seriously wrong with it.
It’s too…cheesy. Overpoweringly so. I fucking love pizza, but the cheese is the base you use to stick the other toppings on. And it has to be lactose free cheese. Which this clearly isn’t. So I probably shouldn’t be eating it. But fuck if I don’t need something to do with my hands and mouth when she’s standing in front of me in a towel the size of a small continent wrapped around her, that somehow still manages to showcase all her damn curves.
Those curves have been torturing me for the best half of a year and right now, in my alcohol-infused brain, yanking on that towel and unravelling her like a skein of silk, to finally explore and get my hands on her, seems like a really stupid-brilliant idea.
And now my dick is twitching in interest.
Hence eating the pizza I know might kill me, because I need to keep my hands off of her. Speaking of pizza…squinting at the open box on the table, all I see is cheese.
“Who the fuck thinkscheeseis the only topping a pizza needs?” I murmur to myself, completely forgetting that she spoke.
Stupid really, to forget, when I’ve been haunted by her lilting melody since day one.
Hands on her hips with a fiery spirit shining in her eyes, she scowls at me and spits, “And I suppose you’re one of those heathens who likes anchovies on their pizza.”
I open my mouth to contradict her when she adds, “or worse, pineapple.”
“Who the fuck thinks pineapple is worse than anchovies?” I growl. That’s just fucking wrong. So fucking wrong.
“So you do like it then,” she spits accusingly.
“I never said that, but yes, I happen to think that pineapple gives a nice burst of freshness to an otherwise potentially heavy food.”
She gives me a filthy look, like somehow pineapple on pizza is more offensive than me sort of breaking and entering into her apartment, and a chuckle slips free from my lips.
Her gaze narrows and I swear to god if she wasn’t wrapped in just a towel right now, she’d be forging headlong into a fight.
As it is, she’s just arguing with me in a towel and I’m happy to let her get on with it just to see how far it goes. I’d like to think that I’m the better man for wanting to see her hackles riled, but I’m probably just the drunk guy who wants to lay some hands on her.
