Page 23 of By His Vow
He comes to a stop in the middle of the large room and his shoulders tense.
If it were anyone else, I’d say they were appreciating the view of the city before them. But this is Kingston. He isn’t like anyone I’ve ever met in my life.
Wrapping my cardigan around myself tighter, I race behind him and look around my space, instantly discovering what his issue is.
“This is…chaotic, Tatum,” he chastises as I pluck one of my bras from the back of the couch and stuff it behind a cushion before he sees it.
“Maybe if you’d told me you were planning on a visit, I might have tidied up,” I snap. It’s a lie, and we both know it. I would never go to any special effort for him.
So our apartment is lived in, so what? We love it here. It’s our safe place, our haven, our home.
How dare he show up unannounced and turn his nose up in disgust.
“It looks like a college girl’s dorm room,” he mutters, kicking one of Lori’s discarded high heels.
“We don’t all live in cold, sterile, show homes, you know,” I snap, turning to look at him as he assesses the disaster that is the kitchen.
In reality, I’ve never been to his place; I wouldn’t have a clue what it looks like. But something tells me it’s far from homely or comforting, just like the man himself.
“And we don’t all have takeout every night of the week,” he accuses, eyeing the containers.
“We had Thai. Fucking sue me.”
I stand there fuming as he clears a small space on the counter and places the bottle of vomit on the side before pulling something else from his pocket.
“Oh good, you brought rabbit food, too. Lucky me.”
His shoulders tense before he looks up at me.
“Do you have any idea what kind of shit you’re filling your body with?”
Jesus, who the fuck called the fun police on me this morning?
“Fun shit, Kingston. Not that you’d have any idea what it feels like to actually enjoy yourself.”
“I have fun,” he argues, the hard expression on his face telling a very different story.
“Bending some dumb blonde over and fucking her six ways from Sunday a few times a week doesn’t cut it.”
A smile pulls at his lips before he chuckles.
Fucking chuckles.
“What’s so funny?” I snap. I’m trying to offend him here, not fucking amuse him.
His eyes continue to hold mine for a few more seconds, the air turning electric between us before he finally mutters, “Nothing. Where are your glasses?”
“In the cupboard where they belong,” I hiss.
“Looking at the state of this place, I highly doubt that,” he says under his breath.
“Why are you here?” I seethe, my hands going to my hips as I wait, very impatiently, for a response.
He searches through three cupboards before he pulls out mismatched glasses—something that I’m sure makes him twitch in irritation.
Fuck. I bet his entire kitchen matches perfectly.
He turns back to me, places the glasses on the side, and picks up the bottle as if he’s about to pour me a serving of the disgusting-looking goop.