Oh, Keep Your Shirt On - Michelle Pennington Page 0,22
I figured now was as good as any to tell Damien my news. Not that I wanted to, but...well, I had to let him know what was happening and ask for a favor. As my landlord.
I rang his doorbell and waited, shivering slightly as a cold breeze swept up my bare legs and invaded the warm air beneath my coat. I clenched my teeth and stared at the mail slot in determined, focused patience. Finally the door opened. My eyes shot up, and there was no more lying to myself after the feeling that rushed through me at seeing his face. I wasn’t anxious to get this conversation over so I could get warm. I just freaking wanted to see his face.
“Krista. Shouldn’t you still be at work?”
“That’s what I came to talk about.”
He stepped aside and waved me toward him. “Come in. It’s freezing out there.”
I shouldn’t have given in. It wouldn’t take me long to say what I needed to. But, well…I did hate being cold.
Damien leaned sideways to shut the door once I was inside, and for some reason I held my breath until he was a safe distance away again. But if I’d planned to stand around talking in his entryway and then dodge away again, he ruined that by walking toward the kitchen. I had no choice but to follow him. It was a repeat of yesterday morning.
He had a mirror hanging on the wall not far from the door. I glanced at it as I passed and winced at my expression. I looked tense, and if I was honest, slightly evil. Damien was a brave man to let me in.
“I just made some popcorn,” he said, opening the microwave bag and releasing a cloud of buttery steam. “Want some?”
He was always so blasted relaxed.
“I got fired.” My words came out tight, but even—completely free from the emotions rumbling inside me.
He dropped the bag on the counter, spilling the popcorn. “What happened?”
That was when I realized that I really needed to talk to someone. When did I start needing that? “A jerk named Bryce accused me of being bulimic. He kept pretending to gag himself, which made me so mad—"
Relaxed, friendly Damien shifted to tense, ominous Damien in a flash. “I think I need to meet this guy.”
“No.” It didn’t take a genius to know that wouldn’t end well. “It’s okay. I put a sign on his back that said, ‘I stuff my underwear.’ He wore it for about fifteen minutes before someone told him. The customers kept laughing at him, and it was the greatest moment of my life because he’s an arrogant dip-wad.”
At this point, Damien turned and braced himself on the counter, his head down so that I couldn’t see his expression.
I shrugged. “And then, like a complete idiot, he went into the main dining room and shouted that he did not stuff his underwear because he didn’t need to.”
Damien’s shoulders tensed, and he bent forward even further but didn’t say anything.
“And all the customers just stared at him for a long moment over their filet mignon and two-hundred-dollar bottles of wine. It was the most awkward pause I’ve ever seen. Then the whole place sort of erupted into smothered laughter with a few loud snickers, and Bryce stormed off to the manager’s office like an angry toddler.”
Now Damien was literally shaking, and I realized he was laughing. All at once, he spun around and grabbed my shoulders, yanking me to him. I stood rigid in his arms, totally unprepared for his reaction, but Damien was now in the grip of thunderous, uncontrolled laughter, so he probably didn’t even realize that I was about as cuddly as a fence post.
When he finally regained some of his composure, he leaned back and grabbed my face between his two big hands and gently shook my head back and forth. “You are the best. If I ever make you mad, I’ll have to watch my back…literally.”
I rolled my eyes at his pun and pulled his hands away from my face. His touchy-feeliness was way, way out of my comfort zone. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t bother with that here. What’s the fun if no one sees it?”
“True,” he said, smiling down at me with humor still gleaming in his blue eyes. In fact, they looked a little watery, glistening like deep lakes.
I stepped back to a safer distance and added, “I’d wait till we were somewhere more public—like the wedding.”
He paused in the middle of wiping