Enamor (Hearts of Stone #3) (5 page)

"You can't just come into my room without asking," I say, firmly.

"I heard power tools and grunting. I was concerned." He holds out a hand. "Give it to me. I'll screw it in for you."

His eyes are always slightly narrowed and slanted in a way that makes him look mischievous even when he's serious. His playful expression is almost disarming. But it leaves a prickle of heat on my cheeks. I didn't miss his innuendo.

The electric screwdriver hangs loosely at my side, my fingers clutched over the handle. Standing on the elevated platform of my bed in my pajama shorts in front of a stranger leaves me feeling exposed. It doesn't help that his sights lower not so briefly to take in my attire.
 

My stomach sinks at the realization I'm not wearing a bra, a fact that will be very obvious beyond the thin material of my cotton t-shirt.
 

I had C cups as a twelve-year-old and these suckers didn't stop growing until I was eighteen. It wasn't good for me as a kid, having a woman's figure before I even understood that it changed the way people looked at me, the way they treated me. A lot of my friends were jealous of the attention I got from guys, but I hated it. While other girls were able to wear cute, frilly clothes, I stuck to loose fitting t-shirts in an attempt to hide my frame. But even that didn't keep me from being subjected to unwanted attention from men twice and even three times my age. It didn't keep rumors from spreading around my middle school that I was a whore even while I had been too shy to even kiss a boy. My curves became something I was made to feel self-conscious of. All because men couldn't be bothered not to ogle me like a piece of meat on display.

I push a loose strand of hair behind my ear and say, "I'm fine. You can go."

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm taller than you by at least a foot," he says, gaze dragging over me again as though my height is written on my body. "Come on, let me do it. It'll take me two minutes."
 

Am I being ridiculous? His words remind me of arguments I used to have with my older sister, where I'd stand my ground on some weak subject and she'd say,
Really, Julia, is this the hill you want to fight and die on? Is it really that big of a deal?

The hill I stand on this time is my bed but, yeah, guess I'm just as stubborn as ever. I don't understand why he's insisting, like he's so sure I can't possibly put up these curtains without him.

"I can do it myself," I say, pulling back a fraction.

I'm unprepared when Giles reaches out in an attempt to snatch the tool from my hand. My finger slips, and a sudden drilling sound erupts followed by a sharp groan of pain. I freeze, mortified that I've severed his finger as Giles curses loudly.
 

When he pulls his hand back, there's an angry red mark on the back of it, right where his thumb meets his wrist. A small section of skin has been scraped off and blood is quickly pooling there. I drop the tool onto the bed, the start of an apology on my parted lips. I grab his hand without thinking.

"Shit, let me see."

"It's just a scratch." He yanks his hand back, already turning away when he throws his other hand in the air and adds, "Good luck putting up your own damn curtains."

My guilt dissipates at his rude tone and the need to call after him as he disappears past the doorframe wins out. "I never asked for your help."
 

He lets the door slam shut behind him and I turn back to the window. I'm breathing hard, my pulse is quick in my ears, and there's a strange swirl of annoyance and determination growing inside me.
 

He can go lick his wound somewhere else for all I care. I know he thinks I can't do it, but I'm going to hang this damn curtain rod on my own if it's the last thing I do.

CHAPTER FIVE

Giles

A
DOOR
CREAKS
OPEN
and I look up from where I sit at the kitchen table. I can't see further down the hall than the bathroom door, but the hesitant footsteps on the hardwood floor tell me Julia's finally coming out of her room.
 

I don't know why she's sneaking out so quietly. Maybe she's hoping to make sure she's alone. Maybe the girl's crazy. I like crazy. I'm just not sure about the type of crazy that nearly drills a hole through my hand.
 

I glance down at the spoonful of cereal halfway to my mouth. There's a bandage covering the space between my thumb and forefinger, but I don't plan to wear it long. The wound really is just a scratch, but it bled like crazy for the first few minutes until I covered it.

I'm still chewing when Julia comes into view, stopping short when she sees me.
 

"Oh," she says.
 

It's more of a sound than a word. The remnants of relief drain from her face and I know she didn't expect anyone to be in the kitchen when she left her room.
 

She's still wearing shorts and a t-shirt. Though, to my disappointment, she took the time to put on a bra.

"Good morning to you, too," I say. "And apology accepted."

"You mean for you barging into my room without permission? Because, no. Apology not received."

I hold up my bandaged hand. "I would apologize, but I think we're even. Though next time I'd appreciate a less violent resolution."

She crosses her arms over her chest. "Yeah, like maybe next time you can get over yourself thinking I need a penis to handle power tools. I put the curtain up just fine, by the way."

"Consider me impressed." Leaning back in my chair, I rub my bare stomach. "But I'm a little disappointed. I can't tell if you're cold or not, anymore."
 

Her eyes narrow right away, catching my reference. "Wish I could say the same for you. Did you lose your shirt?"

"Maybe," I say with an innocent smile. She holds my gaze a little too intently. I think she's resisting the urge to check me out. I wouldn't mind. I've been hitting the gym more than usual lately. I like appreciative looks. "Or maybe I got blood on it."

"And you don't own any other shirts?"

"I do. Just testing out a theory."

Her mouth half-opens before closing right away, and she resists taking the bait of asking me what my theory is. My shirtless state isn't really meant to prove anything, but I figured it wouldn't hurt.

She walks past me and heads farther into the kitchen. If she's uncomfortable, she hides it well. She moves through the kitchen as if she's familiar with the house already. Like she is staking her claim over living here.

 
Something about Julia makes it hard for me to take my eyes off of her. It's strange. She isn't the type I've been going after. She seems too defensive and not the sort to enjoy fooling around. Anyway, everyone knows that I've acquired a taste for blondes lately.

Julia thinks we met for the first time in the coffee shop, and while it's technically true, I noticed her around campus a few weeks before. She epically shot down one of my friends when he tried to hit on her. I'm not sure what he said to her, I was sitting a few feet away from her table in the library, but the testy way she responded to him was hilarious to watch. It was also pretty damn hot.

When she snapped at me in the coffee shop, I couldn't help but try to push her buttons. Once again, the look on her face was priceless. She gets a rebellious spark in her eyes. A feisty feline, that one, so easily combative.

Ava gave me just one warning about our new roommate.
She's not into guys.
I assumed she meant the girl coming to live with us was a lesbian. But when I walked in to see Julia standing in the living room that first day, I knew it wasn't true. I'm good at reading women and Julia's definitely into guys.

"Where's Ava?" she asks, out of nowhere. "Does she even really live here?"
 

Her tone is sarcastic, but there's something about the nervous glance she shoots my way that tells me she's worried it might be true. Worried she was tricked into living alone with me. I could only dream I'd have her to myself like that. She'd be in my bed, spread-eagle every night.

"Ava's working," I say. "She dropped to part-time classes this quarter to take on three jobs."

"Her mom," Julia says, under her breath. It's not a complete thought, but I know what she means. I'm surprised Ava told her about the expenses of my aunt's care.

Julia grabs a bowl from the cabinet, making a point to not look in my direction again as she takes the milk out of the refrigerator.
 

"What do you do, sweetheart?" I ask. "When you're not in school, I mean."

Her response is more like an instantaneous reaction. "Don't call me sweetheart. It's condescending."
 

I almost laugh. Man, she's testy. Does she not realize she's just making me want to mess with her even more? Just to see her wind up, tighter and tighter?
 

I watch her though she's still avoiding looking in my direction. I can't tell if it's because I'm shirtless or if just my presence annoys her. I can't help myself and ask, "So is your problem with me, specifically? Or do you just hate men in general?"
 

She hesitates as she sets down the box of cereal on the counter. I wonder if she notices the box is suspiciously light. Not answering me, she tilts the box over her bowl but only a few crumbs fall out. There's no cereal in the box. It's completely empty.
 

I'm chewing on another mouthful of that very cereal when she spins around to face me.
 

"I just bought this cereal last night. Did you seriously eat the entire box? You didn't think to leave some for the person who bought it?"

I take a moment to swallow, then run a hand over my mouth and chin, trying not to smile. "I'm a hungry guy. Thought you wouldn't mind, since you drilled a hole through my hand earlier." I lift my hand to show off my bandage.

"Oh right, because you nearly died," she says with an eye roll.

I flex the hand, as though testing it still works. "I had to practically sew it back together. It was gnarly."
 

Shaking her head, she grabs the empty box of cereal and stuffs it into the recycling bin. "You know, you're an asshole for putting the empty box back in the cabinet."
 

"Don't get your panties in a knot…Or, wait—do you not wear those, either?"

"Is this yours?" she asks, snatching up a box of Pop-Tarts from the cabinet. I nod and she adds, "Not anymore it isn't."

She tears open a pair of pastries and sticks them into the toaster.
 

I muse out loud, "Do you realize you've lived here less than twenty-four hours, we've been alone for less than two, and we've managed to bicker non stop?"

My question causes her to look up at me and narrow her eyes again.

"All right," she says, "what's the stupid theory you mentioned earlier?"

So, she did take the bait.
 

The corners of my lips twitch as I grab my empty bowl and head toward her. She stiffens when she sees me approaching and I don't miss the way her eyes drag over my bare shoulders, biceps, and down my abs. Down to where my underwear peeks out from the waist of my jeans. I like her looking. I like the shadow that flashes over her expression. Most of all, I like the little breath she takes when she catches herself and snaps her eyes back to mine.
 

The toaster clicks up and her attention swings back to her breakfast. But by the way she tries to flush her body to the counter, I know she can sense me getting closer.

I get much closer than I need to and slip my bowl into the dishwasher. Her elbow grazes the skin under my ribs as I straighten again. She moves farther down the short counter, pulling her breakfast onto a plate. But when I lean back against the edge of the counter and cross my arms over my chest, her gaze trails over my biceps for a few seconds too long.

 
"See something you like?" I ask her, feigning offense.
 

"What's your stupid theory?" she asks again, taking a bite of one of the Pop-Tarts.
 

She's deceptively nonchalant, standing there in her pajamas, just a few feet away from me. I'm surprised she hasn't rushed to sit at the table just to put more distance between us, but if I had to guess I'd bet she's trying to show me she's not intimidated by me.