Mr. Hot Grinch - Lindsey Hart Page 0,14
heats quickly, and I pull down one of the shirts. I feel weird about ironing it and even touching it because I know it’s Luke’s. I try really hard not to think about him, but I know he’d look amazing in the shirt. I also know he’d look even better out of it. He has the look of a guy who is never going to get a true dadbod. Ever. Unless by dadbod, it counts to have rock hard, eight pack, streamlined muscles, and natural athleticism that would make both personal trainers and even professional athletes jealous.
Nope. Absolutely not going there. Those thoughts are trouble, they make my body feel as hot and steamy as the iron I’m working with, and they are unproductive to my job. Guys are just trouble anyway. My parents were right to send me to an all-girls boarding school. They spared me the trouble of men until I was eighteen.
Maybe that’s the problem.
I shove those sorry thoughts in a sack and iron furiously. I’m not very good at it, and I end up making creases with the iron that weren’t there before. I barely keep from cursing. I hate that I’m not good at this stuff—domestic stuff. It makes me feel spoiled and useless.
Is anyone good at ironing? It seems to be a lost art. And whatever. I’m sure there are millions of people out there who had a regular upbringing and also can’t cook.
I’m done with the first shirt and starting on the second when I hear footsteps racing around above me. It’s very obvious Shade’s awake. Either that or a herd of angry opossums just broke into the house. Considering we’re in the middle of the city, that’s highly unlikely. Are opossums even angry animals? I don’t think so. But I know they hiss at their own butts and like to play dead, and I also know their body temperatures are so low, they almost never get rabies. They eat tons of ticks every year, and they actually provide the anti-venom for some snake bites because it doesn’t harm them. At least I think so. I remember doing a report on opossums when I was younger. They’re pretty freaking amazing.
Anyway, it’s obviously Shade up there. A minute later, before I can even move, he comes thumping down the stairs and appears in the doorway to the laundry room.
I’m struck by how much he looks like Luke with his dark hair, brown eyes, and darker complexion. Someday, he’s going to be a heartbreaker. Though not like his dad. Not like I would know or plan to find out. It’s honestly hard to imagine Luke breaking hearts. He’s such a curmudgeonly man, and I can’t imagine anyone giving him a chance, but then, maybe he hasn’t always been like that. Or maybe women like assholes. My mind suddenly inserts a shrugging emoji there.
I’m about to ask Shade if he’d like cereal for breakfast when he raises his hand like a sleepwalking ghost in some freaking horror-action movie, his face completely expressionless as he points at me. It freaks me out until I realize what he’s pointing at. The iron. Smoking. Burning. And the shirt. Oh god, the shirt.
“Yarp! Blueberry bagels and buttered biscuits!” I hastily jerk the iron up. The shirt was blue. I say was because it’s now dark brown with a giant iron mark burned into the front.
Apparently, there isn’t anything I don’t burn, food or otherwise.
Shade giggles. “Why are you talking about food?”
I set the iron aside and yank the cord out of the wall so that I don’t forget it’s plugged in and accidentally burn down the house for real. I wonder what the chances are of Shade forgetting about this and me hiding the shirt in the trash. But no. Luke probably goes through the trash. He strikes me as a suspicious son of a bitch.
“Well, I learned a long time ago not to use bad words, so I say other things.”
“You mean like shit, damn, bi—”
“Yes!” I cut him off, alarmed. “Yes, all those. Those are adult words. You should never use those.”
“You’re an adult, though. Why don’t you use them?”
“Because you’re listening and you’re not an adult, so you don’t need to hear them. And even though I’m grown up, it doesn’t mean I want to use bad words. They have bad meanings, and some people will think you look bad if you walk around saying them.”
“I think it’s cool to use bad words.”
Holy granola. “I don’t know.