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“If you keep looking at me like that, we’re not going to get much packing done, woman,” I warned in a tone so deep, I was surprised it came from my own throat.
Miss Farsey was bringing out traits that I suspected were buried somewhere inside me, but never had I had a woman I felt was worth digging them up for.
The naughty grin that took over her face confirmed she was that woman.
She started toward me, and I held up one hand.
“No, Storm. I’m serious. You don’t want to start all that here under your parents’ roof. Let’s get your essentials packed and go. Speaking of your parents, what did they say when you told them you were moving in with me?”
I watched her face change completely. From seductive and mischievous to guilty, guilty, guilty.
“You didn’t tell them?”
“The opportunity just didn’t present itself, and with my dad’s health,” she stammered, but I cut her off.
“Bullshit. That’s a bullshit excuse, and you know it. That man is healthy as a horse. You all fall back on that excuse way too often. It’s totally overplayed at this point.”
Honestly, I didn’t even recognize myself in this conversation. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was exactly about Agatha, but she brought a side of me into the light.
She was all but begging to be taken care of and, in ways, told what to do. She had so much energy and creativity, but she was lacking direction. My personality naturally responded to those needs, or so it would seem. We were going to be an unstoppable team.
If we could just get her damn shit packed up and get out of here.
“Do you have boxes? I thought you were going to get some today?”
“Well, today went in a different direction than what we discussed yesterday. Stop busting my ass about it, okay?”
She shot me a look along with the declaration, and I raised a brow in response.
“What?” she barked.
“I don’t appreciate the tone, miss. I simply asked you a question. You don’t have to get so defensive.”
“I’m not defensive,” she snapped back, proving my point perfectly.
Tilting my head a bit, I didn’t have to say anything. She heard the tone of her own voice. I didn’t have to annotate it.
“Do you have a few suitcases? Duffel bags? Trash bags? We need something to put your clothes in at the very least. We can come back for the rest tomorrow and bring boxes then. You don’t want your valuable things getting damaged,” I said, laying out the game plan.
“There’s a suitcase on the floor in my closet. I’ll get some other things from my sisters’ rooms,” she said, and I went to the closet and squatted in front of the rows of shoes.
I shined the light from my phone toward the back wall and found the suitcase. When I pulled it toward me, an empty vodka bottle tumbled out of the closet with it.
My wife came back into the room right as I reached for the incriminating evidence of another problem we were going to deal with.
“That’s not mine,” she said as I turned to face her, gripping the bottle by the slim neck.
“Bullshit. Let’s not get in the habit of lying to each other, okay? And while you’re at it, stop lying to yourself.”
The thunk of the empty bottle hitting the bottom of the small trash can beside her desk was louder than a gunshot in the quiet room.
My wife stood with her hands on her hips, madder than a nest of hornets. Instead of taking responsibility for the obvious, she was about to lash out at me. I was already on to her routine.
“Why were you snooping around in my closet?” she asked with a good dose of attitude.
I couldn’t hold back my chuckle, and that pissed her off more. “Snooping? Be serious right now. You told me to get the suitcase out of the closet, so that’s what I did. The bottle must have been stashed in front of it, because it rolled out when I tugged on the luggage.” I shook my head at her absurdity and huffed another disbelieving laugh. This situation wasn’t close to funny.
She couldn’t formulate a comeback that made sense. She stood there stammering and fuming while trying to think of something.
