Page 22 of Entangled
“Heard that before.”
She narrows her eyes. “You want my answer first? Fine. Yes, I’m going to dance for a client.”
Everything inside me tightens like a coiled spring. “Why?”
“Because I’d rather spend my time on someone whowantsmy company. Even if it’s only virtually. So, if you don’t mind, I need to go change.” She steps around me and heads for the staircase.
Wait. Don’t go. I want your company.
The pleas circle my mind, but I don’t voice them. The fact remains, she’s the heir to Frederic Punzel’s fortune, and I’m a nobody who delivers packages.
She hesitates at the bottom of the stairs like she’s waiting for me to stop her, but the words lodge themselves in my throat. I know better than to start something I have no business finishing.
Rowan glances over her shoulder with a defeated sigh. “Have a good night, Henry. Please lock the door on your way out.”
“Night,” I grumble, studying the tube of ointment I’m holding like it can end world hunger. “Thanks for dinner.”
“You’re welcome.” Her retreating footsteps make my chest hurt, but I don’t dare stop her. It’s better this way. No sense aching for something I can’t have.
I snatch the clothes and first-aid shit, then return to the bathroom. After angrily cleaning the scratches on my arms and sides, I put on the too-snug clothes Rowan let me borrow. The stupid T-shirt has “Book Boyfriend” emblazoned across the chest. Is that what women want? Fictional men? If so, I’m fucked.
My work pants were thick enough that they kept Knife Feet from doing too much damage below the belt. He only broke the skin in one spot. My arms, however, are a shitshow, courtesy of the defensive pose I used to protect my face. Once finished, I gather my dirty clothes and leave the bathroom.
The kitchen is vacant again. Music drifts from overhead, and I clench my jaw, wishing I were the lucky bastard watching Rowan dance. Who am I kidding? Luck has never favored me. My military career would still be intact if I hadn’t been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I squeeze my eyes shut against the dark memories and step into my boots. I can’t go down that road. The last thing I need is to make my shitty mood worse. I slide my jacket on, tugging the zipper to my throat. Even through the thick door I can hear the howling wind. I’m sure the roads are an icy fucking mess.
Now that the adrenaline has worn off, I’m exhausted. I need to get home and go the fuck to bed.
Opening the door, I step into the elements with a curse. It snowed a few inches since I arrived, which will make the drive home even shittier. I trudge across the property and slip through the front gate, then make the trek to where I parked halfway down the mountain.
I finally reach my stupid truck after falling on my ass twice. Now I’m cold, wet, sexually frustrated, and pissed off. Sliding into the frigid cab, I shove my keys into the ignition and turn.
Nothing happens.
“What the fuck?” I try again, but the engine doesn’t even click. I give it a few more attempts, then bang my forehead on the steering wheel. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”
The battery is dead. No, deader than dead. Why? Because I’m the world’s biggest jackass.
I scarfed down a sandwich at lunchtime. As usual, I didn’t take any breaks all afternoon into the evening. When I arrived at Rowan’s, I checked the mirror to make sure I had no lettuce in my teeth before heading to her door. Since the tree cover made it too dark to see, I flicked on the interior light. Apparently, I forgot to turn the goddamn thing off.
I shove my hand into my jacket pocket for my phone. It’s not in there. “Son of a bitch.” I reach beneath my seat to feel around for it. Nothing.
Now I’m sitting in a dark, disabled—and cold as fuck—vehicle with no phone. I can’t walk back to town. It’s too far.
Which leaves me only one logical option.
8
ROWAN
Mood Music: “River” by Bishop Briggs
“Well,Thor, it looks like it’s you and me tonight.” I pull my beloved golden vibrator from the antique cabinet that holds my toys and twist the base to check its battery status. Strong vibrations pulse through my hand. “At least one of us is ready,” I mutter, carrying the god of thunder across the room. Releasing a weary sigh, I toss it onto the pile with the rest of tonight’s props.
Mr. Maximus logged in earlier to request a private show. Even though the last thing I feel like doing right now is dancing, since Henry so rudely interrupted our session yesterday morning, I figure I owe Mr. Maximus some of my time.
My computer pings with a notification on Myst. I log in with my screen name and scan my inbox, clicking on the newest message.
