Right Number, Wrong Girl

“That’s not what you were saying forty minutes ago.”

I grabbed one of the decorative throw pillows from the floor and chucked it at him. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“You think I’d fuck you and run?” He raised his eyebrows and grabbed his underwear from the floor. “No.”

“Aren’t you a real gentleman?”

“Not really. You still need to help me with Grandma’s birthday present.”

I threw another pillow at him, this time hitting him as he bent down to put his boxers on and grab his trousers.

“Ooft.” He shuddered as he straightened up. “Nice shot.”

I rolled my eyes and got up, reaching into the drawers for some clothes. I tossed on a baggy t-shirt and some leggings, then followed him downstairs. “Do you have any idea what your grandma wants?”

“No. She has everything already. That’s why it’s so bloody hard.”

“How did I know you’d say that?”

“I don’t know, but I’m sure you’ll tell me it’s because of something like me being painfully predictable.”

“You? Predictable? I don’t think so.” I shook my head and grabbed my laptop from the kitchen so I could take it through to the living room. “That’s the last word I’d use to describe you. I mean, I thought you were a raging asshole the first time we met.”

“You have mentioned that once or twice.” He sat down on the sofa and put his feet on the coffee table.

I sat next to him and patted his feet. “That’s rude.”

“Blimey.” He swung his feet down and stretched his legs out so they were under the table instead. “Is that better, Your Highness?”

“Much. Thank you. I put my tea on that table.”

“Ah, your impossible to make tea.”

“It’s not impossible.”

“It might as well be. You should just put bloody gold in there at this point.”

“Christ, you’re dramatic.” I opened the laptop. “One would assume you’d be in a better mood after sex.”

Hugo laughed and leaned in, resting his arm across the top of the sofa cushions. His fingers toyed with my hair as I booted up the laptop. “I am in a fantastic mood, as far as it goes.”

I peered over at him and typed in my password. “Mm.”

“Do you have any ideas for this present?”

“I cannot believe you’ve left it this late,” I said quietly. “It’s in a little over a week.”

“I don’t really like shopping.”

“I am shocked by that revelation.”

“Now who’s the dramatic one?”

I shook my head and pulled up Google, then typed in gift ideas for 80-year olds.

Hugo stilled. “Really? That’s your idea?”

“It’s better than yours. Yours was to make me look,” I scoffed.