Can't Fix Cupid

“Life, I guess,” I answer in a small voice.

Something indecipherable crosses over his face before it disappears again, and he clears his throat. “Eat and get ready. I’ll be waiting for you downstairs.”

He walks out of the room, leaving me alone, and I sigh slightly as I look down at the breakfast. I don’t know how to handle my convoluted feelings for him, so I guess I’ll just eat. French toast doesn’t come with emotional strings. At least, not that I know of.

When I dig into the spread, there are no dainty bites or ladylike chewing. I gobble the shit like I’m a damn turkey.

But if I thought the food was good, it’s got nothin’ on Warren’s shower. I always knew it looked kickass, but that thing deserves an award.

It takes some serious self-control to pull my ass out from under the amazing streams of water and into a towel. I can’t help but look back longingly at the shower head as I dry off.

Digging through his drawers, I manage to find a small brush, and I comb out the tangles in my hair. The length of my hair only reaches my chin, but I don’t know what to do with it after I brush it, since Blue has done my hair for me for the past several days.

I try to braid it, but apparently, that’s just not a skill I’m capable of. Knowing that I’m running out of time, I decide to just let it air dry and hope I don’t end up looking like a ball of cotton candy.

The outfit that Warren brought me is a simple black dress that hits me mid-thigh, the square neckline modest and professional. The fabric is nice, and I feel important, like one of the many successful people that work in his office. Unlike the stuff I’ve gotten from the communal bin, this fits me perfectly. Even the black lace panties and bra are the perfect size.

I wonder where the clothes came from and grimace a little when the thought crosses my mind that this could be his own communal bin, left behind from women he’s had over. I sincerely hope not, but I don’t have any other options to wear, unless I want to put on the denim dress again. Which I don’t, because it reeks of weed and reminds me of Sparrow.

When I walk downstairs, wearing the short black pumps he left for me, I find Warren in his kitchen sitting at the counter with a cup of coffee in his hand. I peer over his shoulder to look into the cup as I pass by. “Of course you like your coffee black,” I tease.

Warren looks up from his phone, and his dark eyes assess me. I run nervous hands down the dress. “Do I look okay?”

His brown eyes lock on mine. “You look great.”

I breathe out a little sigh of relief and smile. “Thanks. That would’ve really sucked if you said I looked crappy,” I say with a little laugh.

Instead of matching my amusement, Warren simply shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter what you wear, you could never look crappy.”

The familiar charge in the air leaps up between us once again, making my breath catch in my throat.

I’m leaving, I remind myself over and over again. I’m leaving, I’m leaving, I’m leaving.

I don’t know what expression he sees on me, but Warren’s face suddenly shutters, and he looks away. “Are you ready to go?” he asks without looking at me.

I silently chastise myself for my reaction and how dismissive I acted. Before he can walk away, I quickly reach out and grasp him by the wrist, stopping him in his tracks. “You could never look crappy either,” I tell him, my voice shyer than usual. Man, I’m such a nerd. I’m supposed to be a love goddess, and the best I could come up with was, you could never look crappy either? Sev would facepalm so hard right now.

Warren assesses me again, like he’s trying to see if I’m being sincere or not, and then a flicker of amusement crosses over his face. “Yeah? Do I look better than that jerkoff last night wearing the turtleneck?”

I grimace at the memory of Sparrow’s hands on me, and I shiver slightly. “Definitely,” I say without hesitation. “There’s no way that Sparrow could match your level of debonair, Mr. Knight.”

Warren scoffs with derision. “Of course the fucktard’s name was Sparrow,” he says scathingly.

“I thought he was artsy and different,” I admit. “But it turns out he was just a douche with really strong weed,” I chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. It doesn’t work.

“Well, he better hope that he never sees me again, because the next time I do, I won’t let him off so easily.”

I tilt my head, studying him curiously, but then the pieces quickly fall together, and I smack a palm to my forehead for being such an idiot. “So that’s why you got so mad at me that day,” I say, dropping my hand. “You...I hurt you,” I say with a bit of awe, because honestly, it’s unbelievable.

I’m not the only one in this unlikely duo who’s developed feelings. His temper, the way he reacted when I tried to set him up again...I should have recognized it for what it was. But I suppose when we’re closest to each other, that’s when we’re often the most blind.

Now I feel awful.

“I didn’t realize that you had feelings for me,” I say, taking a step towards him. He shifts on the barstool, turning his body towards me as I step between his legs. “Honestly, it doesn’t make any sense. I mean, you’re you,” I say, waving a hand up and down at him.

His dark eyebrows pull together. “What does that mean?”

“Well, look at you. You’re Warren Knight. The ridiculously hot, successful, rich, aloof, asshole bachelor. You date Hollywood stars, and even then, you never seem to like anyone you date.”