Page 47
He knocked.
Oh, did he knock.
Loud and sharp and determined. And PISSED. He was pissed.
He heard footsteps coming toward the door. He heard the lock click. The door opened and then Rowan was there.
In his pajamas. His hair was soft around his face, wavy and bright red. Messy like he’d been running hands through it. He had a stretched-out, short-sleeved shirt on and low-slung plaid pants, and he looked like someone who couldn’t take the strength of Milo’s fury at the moment, so maybe he could just…
NO!
He had not fumed all the way over to be defeated by fluffy hair and pajamas.
“What the fuck was that?” he demanded.
Rowan scowled at him, crossing his arms over his chest. Bulging. HUGE! Those arms had veins and scales running all over them, and they looked really nice. Just right to bite into. Again.
“Which part?” Rowan bit back, and whoa, what was that tone?
Milo startled, because this wasn’t how things were supposed to go. He was the angry one. He was the one who should be demanding answers. He hadn’t done anything wrong and here Rowan was, glaring at him as if he had.
“You set my cake on fire,” Milo said, loud enough for everyone else living in Rowan’s building could hear. Good. They should hear it because he’d ruined dessert. A punishable crime if he’d ever seen one. “In front of people. In front of MY people. What is wrong with you?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Rowan said sharply, redness bleeding into his face.
“Well, you literally have no choice. I came, paid for the bus fare, got all riled up to hash it out with you, so…explain.”
“No,” Rowan said. “I will not be explaining anything. You can just go back home.”
“Absolutely not.” Milo took a step closer to the door, balking when Rowan pulled it toward himself, cutting Milo off from entering.
He took the movement in, something sour curdling in his stomach. His vision blanked and bile rose in his throat.
“Is she here?” he asked before he could stop himself.
“What?” Rowan asked. “Who?”
“The waitress,” Milo said. As if it made all the sense in the world. “The one from the restaurant.”
“Why the fuck would I have a waitress from the restaurant in my apartment in the middle of the night?”
“You tell me! She seemed like she’d come if you’d just winked at her.”
“I don’t wink,” Rowan said.
“Whatever! Asked her, then. She seemed very eager.”
“She was doing her job.”
“Stuffing her boobs in your face is her job?” Milo asked.
“She didn’t stuff her boobs in my face.”
“She brought you wine!”
“Yes.” Rowan nodded. “She is a waitress.”
“She kept coming back to your table,” Milo argued. About what, exactly, he wasn’t sure.
