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Chapter Seven
Joy
“He wants to jump your bones.”
I didn’t look up from the tray of sugar cookies I was piping little orange pumpkins onto. “No, he doesn’t.”
The he Ian was talking about, was Nightmare. He’d actually been making inappropriate comments for the last two days, but I digress.
“Girl,” Ian said, snapping his fingers dramatically as he hopped up on my new stainless steel table. “That sexy beast has been lookin’ at you like you’re the last drink of water in the desert.”
He had been staring, which was odd, but he didn’t want to jump my bones. The man didn’t even like me.
“He’s a dick,” I said, finishing the stem on the cute Jack-o’-lantern cookie. “And he treats me like crap.”
“Honey.” Ian tilted his head at me, and I had the sudden urge to ask him where he got his mascara. It really made his lashes look long.
However, before I could even open my mouth, he was on again about the man I was trying not to think about anymore.
“Joy—Honey—Baby. Didn’t your momma ever tell you that boys who pull your hair actually like you?”
“First, that’s just dumb. Boys should never put their hands on girls, no matter how old they are. Parents need to do better at teaching their sons this lesson. And second, no,” I said. “My momma told me if a boy put his hands on me, I had her permission to punch him in the nuts.”
Ian barked out a laugh so loud Hannah stuck her head through the swinging door to see what was going on.
“He’s lost his mind.” I pointed to the goof beside me.
“Ah.” Nodding, she disappeared back behind the door.
It had been two days since my weird morning with Nightmare, and of course I’d told Ian all about it.
Duh.
He was my best friend. Who else was going to help me figure out what it all meant?
What I hadn’t counted on was him turning it into a running joke.
The last two mornings had gone the same way. Ian stayed glued to the kitchen door, peeking at Nightmare, who sat in the corner nursing a black coffee and watching me. And then he’d watch me give the man the cold shoulder.
Honestly, Ian was living his best life.
I was not.
“I’m just saying.” He plucked a broken cookie off the reject plate and bit into it. “The man carried your fat dog for you.”
I frowned. “Murphy isn’t fat. He’s big boned. Plus, that jerk is being paid to babysit me,” I countered.
“Keep tellin’ yourself that.”
“Can you please stop talking about him already?”
“I’ll stop when you stop lying to yourself, Boss Lady.”
I rolled my eyes and reached for another tray.
Hours later, I was shouldering the steel service door open with a forty-gallon bag of trash in each hand.
As I was about to round the corner of the building, I heard my brother’s voice, and I stopped dead.
