Prompted by: Jane Jago
The crazy author says: Ehhh, there’s no way in hubcaps I’m gonna be able to kill off this storyline by next week. Boo.
And the key to winning this game?
So I get cozy and listen while the conversation shifts from finger-fucking their new guest (me) to the NHL playoffs because ex-thieving killers who now walk the line obviously watch hockey like the rest of us do. When the TV turns on, drowning out their voices, I switch to stargazing. I search for constellations in the popcorn ceiling and wait patiently.
Tech doesn’t make me wait long.
I’ve only managed to spot Orion’s Belt and a slightly skewed Big Dipper when the door cracks open. His handsome head peeks around the frame, although he doesn’t make eye contact.
I sit up and cat stretch, mainly for show. “Yep.”
He enters the room looking fine as hell and sexy as all get out except…
His expression is riddled with guilt. His body language screams regret. His movements are slow as he wheels toward me. There’s a tray balanced across his legs, which he’s trying not to spill.
“What’s that?” I ask.
He comes to a stop as his knees bump into the side of the bed. “Tomato soup, naturally.”
His gaze remains downcast and he forces a smile. No dimples. No crinkles. No genuine joy. “Tomato’s the universal feel-better soup.”
I laugh. It can’t be helped. “Pretty sure that’s chicken noodle.”
Setting my food on the nightstand, he murmurs, “How about I make it for you next time?”
And I decide something, right then and there.
When I start falling in love with this man, I won’t fight it.
I’ll just fall.
But that doesn’t mean I won’t bust his balls for drugging me. I think. And abducting me. Kind of. And objectifying me. Without a doubt.
I reach over and dip a finger into the bowl. Then bring it to my lips for a taste and nearly die.
Fuck, that’s good.
Finally, his head lifts. Questioning eyes meet mine.
I hold my ground and shrug. “Who said there’d be a next time?”
What’s the prompt for next week, guys?
Make suggestions below. 7 words or less.