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I should’ve played on his organized-freak tendencies before. No wonder he placed a whole room separator between my side of the library and his. In hindsight, he should’ve built a wall.
Hellooo. You still there?
Perfectly am, but you won’t be once I’m finished with you.
Oh, please. I’m just asking for help innocently.
There’s nothing innocent about you. What’s the reason behind this tantrum?
I’m just reading ever so quietly.
Chaotically is more like it.
You’re right, there’s no quietness involved. I have screaming metal on. Our neighbors would’ve reported me to the police if not for the soundproofing system. Sam has evacuated most of the staff from the premises, so it’s only me and your books. No one will save them from my rigorous highlighting system. What a shame.
I send more marked pictures, but this time, he doesn’t reply.
He’s no fun.
Just when I think I’ve figured out a way to mess with him, he effortlessly shuts me down.
My level of frustration mounts to dangerous heights, so I grab a bodice ripper novel from my prized collection, then lie back down on my stomach in the middle of his pretentious books.
They could use an introduction to better and less snobbish literature, if you ask me.
Lifting my legs in the air, I cross them at the ankles and get lost in the world of a rake duke with questionable morals as I consume more candy floss than should be allowed.
This is unfair. Why are men better in fiction?
Petition to transform the entire male population into men written by women. Please and thank you.
“What in the ever-loving fuck are you doing?”
I hate the tinge of excitement that rushes through me at his deep, refined, and suspiciously calm voice.
This shit is really good if it managed to keep me from noticing his arrival.
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m reading,” I say without acknowledging his presence.
“And you couldn’t do that in more decent clothes?”
I glance at him over my shoulder and kind of regret it because, apparently, I’ve forgotten just how illegally dazzling my husband is.
Clad in a navy-blue suit with a hand in his pocket, he looks straight off of a fashion runway despite being at the office all day.
I let my gaze roam over him shamelessly. Slick jet-black hair, frosty eyes, stone-cold face, and pursed lips…
I pause. There’s a cut on his lower lip that’s big enough to stand out.
“What are you wearing?” he asks.
I sigh. “Max Mara. Seriously, since when are you so interested in my dresses’ designers?”
“Since they’re not decent.”
“They’re decent enough.”
“Enough to show the crack of your arse.”
