Love You Better (Better Love 1)

I’m about to pop off, put this snatchy thief in their place, but my attention is stolen by the hand that’s holding the bottle.

A big hand.

A strong hand.

A sexy hand.

Hmm.

I scan my eyes upward. A few woven bracelets are tied loosely around the thick wrist, and a dusting of hair covers the muscular, rigid, golden forearm.

That’s a nice f

orearm, right there.

I move my gaze farther up, over a defined bicep and broad chest covered in a blue and white baseball-style t-shirt. A silver necklace of some sort hides beneath the collar of the shirt, the defined jaw is sporting a bit of light brown scruff, and soft, chestnut hair feathers just above the shoulders.

I bring my focus out, enough to study the whole hairstyle, to find it loose, kinda messy, with a bit of a wave to it.

Prince haired Harry hair.

When the mouth moves, I flick my eyes down to it to find plump lips quirked in a bit of a smile, and they move again.

The hulking man is speaking.

“Huh?” All I can hear is Patrick Stump in my ears.

His mouth moves a third time, the tiny smile turning into a full-blown grin showing off straight, white teeth.

Then I watch in slow motion as the other hand, the one not holding my bottle of pure vanilla hostage, raises up and tugs one of my earbuds out of my ear.

“You said Prince Harry,” he says with a laugh.

“No, I said prince haired Harry,” I correct. “And I didn’t realize I’d said it out loud.” He pops a brow in question, and I roll my eyes. “Google it.”

“Okay,” he continues, voice low and playful. “Are you okay?”

I bristle. “I’m fine.”

“I wasn’t sure. You’re kinda just standing there staring.”

“I was sizing up my new enemy.” I tug out my other earbud.

“Enemy?” He laughs again. It’s a good laugh.

“You just stole that vanilla from me. I don’t make it a habit to befriend thieves.”

“I didn’t steal it. I just got it before you.” He’s still smiling.

It’s an attractive smile, damn it.

“I was clearly here first. I was clearly reaching for that bottle when you jumped out of nowhere and snatched it.” I put my hand on my hip and pop it out. My roommate Ivy calls it my power pose. She says it’s how she knows when I’m in a take-no-prisoners mode.

“You were here first, yeah. But you were standing there surveying the shelf for a pretty long time,” he says with a smirk. “Some of us have places to be. It’s not thieving to just sneak past ya and grab what I need.”

“It’s line jumping, which everyone knows is poor social etiquette, and it is thieving, because that bottle is mine.”

“Poor social etiquette?”