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Not my birthday.
Not my favorite food.
Not my favorite movie, music, or hobby.
When I’d closed my eyes and asked what color they were, he’d tried to bluster angrily before finally claiming they were dark brown.
I’d have accepted blue since my eyes could appear lighter if I was wearing a shade of it. Out of a desperate need to prove I hadn’t wasted seven months of my life, I would’ve even accepted hazel.
But brown? No, not just brown, but dark brown?
That’d been the end of the relationship.
My friends had comforted me with more booze and claims that men never remembered details like that. But as I looked at the bag, I wondered if they’d just been lying to make me feel better.
The door behind me opened so suddenly, I jumped and turned, almost dropping the fragile palette I held.
Psycho stood in the doorway, still clad in just his boxers—and his tattoos were not the only thing they showed off. My eyes shot up, but it didn’t help much since his cocky smile did unbelievable things to his hotness—something else I tried to ignore. “Knew you couldn’t resist.”
“I said I was dressed a few minutes ago,” I blurted, sounding defensive and guilty.
“I heard. Had to finish up a call.”
“Oh.”
He tilted his head toward the bag. “You change your mind about washing up?”
Yes.
“No.” I put the palette down and pointed out, “These are all the right shades.”
“And?”
“You said the lady picked everything out.”
“Had to give her some direction since there’s a shit-ton of options.”
“Guys don’t remember that kind of stuff.”
“Then you’ve been datin’ assholes,” he shot back through clenched teeth. Taking a few long strides, he stopped close. “Don’t know what most of this shit is. But I sure as fuck know what you look like. I told her, and she sold me half the store.”
My heart hammered in my chest and my stomach turned to warm, melty, twisting giddiness.
Fine, he’s a thoughtful psycho. Still a psycho.
Don’t get caught up in his charming danger.
I looked up to tell him where he could shove the entire purchase, but when I opened my mouth, those weren’t the words that came out. “When’s my birthday?”
Psycho’s brows lowered. “ID says June seventh.”
Okay, he’s better than Alex. That’s not a high bar to hurdle over.
Plus, Alex never kidnapped me, so maybe they’re tied.
Angry at Alex for lowering my standards, Psycho for being, well, psycho, and at myself for being the kind of idiot who was going to have her very own multi-episode Dateline special, I didn’t say anything more as I turned away and cleared the bag off the bed. I climbed in, rolled to my side, and pulled the covers over my head, doing my best to block out the fact there was a man in his boxers preparing to sleep on the floor.
Once the light was off and the heat under the blanket became unbearable, I uncovered my head. Long, sleepless minutes passed, and I rolled to my back.
