Page 22 of PS: I Hate You
“He’s divorced.” I jab a finger Dom’s way. “I’m single.” I point to my chest. “But we’re not going to sleep together or have sex. Because I hate him, and his face, and his pineapple boxers. Boxers, I might add, that mybrothergave him. But in, like, a totally platonic way. I think. Holy shit.” I smack a palm against Dom’s massive chest. “Did you hook up with Josh?”
Dom’s hand covers mine, holding it captive as he stares at the ceiling and exhales a deep breath that sounds suspiciously likeWhat the fuck?
Ha! Irresponsible language. A point for me.
“No, Maddie. Josh and I never hooked up. We were just friends.”
The guy sounds entirely too sober for someone who had four beers, three shots, and no food.
“Well, good. Only one Sanderson stain to your name.” I tug my hand free of his, the maneuver surprisingly difficult, then snatch my room key card.
“Maddie.” Dom’s voice sounds growly. He’s probably just mad that I’m airing his dirty laundry—his one mistake—in front of this random motel worker.
“Dominic,” I mock with a deep tone as I stroll out of the office. At least, I attempt to stroll, but the ground keeps rocking beneath my feet, so I do more of a swaying walk with the occasional dance move thrown in, so no one knows how unsteady I actually am.
Outside, a chill breeze pushes humid, salty air through my damp dress, and I look forward to peeling off every piece of clothing I have on and standing in a hot shower for a good hour.
“You missed your room.” The gruff voice coaxes me to turnaround, and I find Dom not far behind me, his focus on a vending machine.
“How do you know? You’re not even looking at me.”
Which is good. I don’t want him to look at me.
“Because our rooms are that way.” He points to a stretch of doors on the other side of the office.
“You could’ve told me sooner,” I mutter, retracing my not-so-straight steps. “I hate hotels. And motels. Every room is the same. A copy you can’t tell apart. They’re all lifeless.”
On my way to my door, I veer off course and intentionally stumble into Dom, shoulder to shoulder, so I can stare through the glass at the snacks, too. The colorful wrappers inform me that I’m hungry, but when I pull out my credit card, ready to blow my life savings on gummy worms, I realize that the machine doesn’t have a card reader.
“This is bullshit.” Gesturing toward the dollar bill slot, I glance up to include Dom in my commiserating and maybe enjoy one of his disappointed frowns. Instead, I watch as he opens a leather wallet to pull out some crisp dollar bills.
“You carry cash? Are you kidding me? Who carries cash anymore? Are you ninety? Do you pay for your groceries with a check? You had exact change for the tollbooths, didn’t you?”
Dom lets me rant as he inserts his archaic money into the machine. He presses a series of buttons, and when I see what falls I let out a groan.
“Peanuts? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” One advantage I have on the six-foot, however-many-unnecessary-inches man is that I can get low faster than he can. I drop to my knees, plunge my hand into the food dispenser, and steal his legumes.
“Maddie.” His voice holds a warning I refuse to heed.
“Dominic Dickbag Perry. You’ve got rows of delicious candy and chips and the cash to buy it all and you pickpeanuts. Like some serial killer.”
“Peanuts have protein.”
“Try again,” I demand, poking an aggressive finger against the glass.
“Give me my peanuts.” He makes to grab them, but I step back fast, out of his reach.
“No!”
Seeing his intent to try again, I shove the bag down the neckline of my dress with a triumphant “Hah!”
Mr.Responsible Asshole would never violate the sanctity of my clothes without my permission.
Unfortunately, my alcohol-infused brain temporarily forgot exactly how dresses work, so almost immediately, the peanuts fall out the bottom of my skirt as if I’m a giant bird popping out eggs on the sidewalk.
After a beat of hesitation, I drop down, sitting cross-legged on my newly laid peanut bag.
“You’re sitting on my food,” Dom says.