The Grump I Despise (When In Waverly 3)

He looks me in the eye and says, “You can come in…”

“No, no. I heard what you said. Why are you being nice to me?” I ask, clarifying my previous question. I would think he’d love having a front row seat for any kind of misery I might be experiencing, so why is he trying to play the knight in shining armor to my damsel in distress. Granted, I’m not in a great deal of distress. I was just about to open up an e-book and read. Reading is definitely not a hardship for me. But I am kind of cold since my clothes are still damp. Dry clothes would be nice, but I’d rather bury myself in a shallow grave than ask Colby to borrow some of his clothes. And then I’d be all wrapped up in clothes that he wore on his body, and I bet they’d smell like him. Ew.

It is a magnificent body. (Just speaking objectively again.) There’s no getting around that fact. But it doesn’t change the fact that he’s horrible, and I hate him, and I’d rather get hypothermia than have his cooties on me.

“Do you want to come inside or not, woman? I’m getting soaked standing out here,” he says impatiently. Do I want to be inside? Yes. But do I want to be trapped inside with Colby? That would be a big no. Although, this could be a great opportunity to do some reconnaissance of his house. I could get some great insight into the inner workings of Colby’s head by seeing his living space.

“Sure,” I say. Colby’s eyes narrow when he sees a small smile spread across my face. I can’t help it. I’m too eager to see the way this man lives to hide it. Play it cool, Norah. He’s onto you!

I climb out of my car, and I’m immediately pelted with rain. I brush my hair back from my face. I’m so glad I went through all the trouble of styling my curls this morning for them to be ruined this afternoon. I’m sure they’ll look like a frizzy, tangled mess when they dry out.

Colby grabs my hand in his and pulls me under the umbrella with him. My hand naturally lands on his chest. It feels surprisingly warm considering he’s standing out in the rain in January. I flatten my hand out to soak in the heat. I feel his chest expand with a deep breath, and I jerk my hand back when I realize what I’m doing and look up to see him watching me. I don’t think I’ve ever stood this close to him or realized exactly how much taller he is than me.

“Come on,” he says and pulls me toward his house. I walk beside him, shoulder to shoulder, until we get to the curb, and I see the huge puddle. I know I’m a grown woman, but some things are too tempting even for the most mature among us, which I most assuredly am not.

My hand slips out of his when I stop walking. He turns to see why I’ve stopped—right at the moment I kick the water up at him. It splashes all over his legs. Not really the great victory I was going for since they were already pretty soaked from standing out in the rain. And now I’m not under the umbrella, so I’m getting pelted with big, fat raindrops. For a moment, Colby just stands there, staring at me, and I see the moment he makes his decision. He kicks his long leg through the water and splashes me right back. Unfortunately for me, I am significantly shorter than he is, and the gross puddle water goes everywhere. It splashes onto my face, and some bits of grass and who knows what else is plastered on my cheek.

I step forward to get closer to him and splash him again, but he takes off toward his house. I chase after him, not really sure what I’m planning on doing if I catch up to him. Tackle him maybe? There’s no chance I’d be able to take him down.

He’s at his front door now, punching in the code to unlock the door with his one free hand. I snatch the umbrella out of his other hand, and he turns around to try to get it back. Afraid to turn my back on him, I run backward into his yard and dance around to taunt him.

He stalks toward me with a devilish smirk on his face, and I take a few steps back and manage to trip on a tree root. I fall on my butt and drop the umbrella. Colby picks it up and then leaves me sitting on the wet, muddy ground. He unlocks his front door, goes inside, and shuts the door without giving me a second glance. Yep, he’s still the same Colby I’ve always known and despised. At least the giant tree is giving me a little cover from the rain.

I get up and inspect my clothes. I’ve got mud all over my backside and grass sticking to my pants. Great. That childish moment really backfired on me. What am I supposed to do now? Do I go knock on the door and see if he’ll let me in, or do I go back to my car? I don’t want to get in my car like this. I look like I’ve jumped into a lake, and I’m freezing. My limbs are shaking, my teeth are chattering, and I bet if I looked in a mirror, I’d find that my lips are turning blue.

I take a deep breath for courage and stomp up to Colby’s front door. I quickly ring the doorbell before I have a chance to change my mind, and then I wait for him to answer…and wait, and wait, and wait. Well, this is just fabulous. He’s going to leave me stranded out here. I turn to go back to my car, but then I hear the door open behind me, and a hand wraps around my bicep, stopping me in my tracks. He pulls me back and turns me around, and I see why it took him so long to let me in.

He has changed into a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, and he somehow looks fresh and clean, like some crazy woman didn’t just splash him with gross puddle water and make him stand out in the rain. I hate him even more now. I don’t want to look like a sewer rat while he looks like absolute perfection.

“Come on,” he says. He beckons me inside. I’m momentarily tempted to flee, but my feet are already following him into the living room. I do a quick scan of the room, taking note of the cleanliness. A towel lands on my face and falls to the floor.

“Jerk,” I mutter as I bend down to pick it up. I kick my shoes off by the door and run the towel through my dripping hair.

“Excuse me? Who’s the jerk here?” he asks. I didn’t think he would hear that. I add ‘supersonic hearing’ to my running list of his worst qualities. “I’m letting you take refuge in my house, and you splashed me with dirty water and stole my umbrella.”

“Right. You’re right.” I’ve never admitted that he’s been right about anything, and I probably never will again, so he better not get used to hearing those words. This is a one-time thing.

He lifts an eyebrow and crosses his arms as if he’s waiting for me to say something else. I don’t know what he’s waiting on. My brain has temporarily left the building while I stare at his toned arms. The sleeves of his t-shirt look like they’re straining trying to squeeze around those arms.

“Follow me,” he says. He walks down a hallway, but I’m still dripping by the front door. I’m going to get mud and water everywhere if I move. He pokes his head back around the corner and asks, “Are you coming?” I guess he’s not too worried about the mess I’ll make.

He takes me to his bedroom. His immaculate bedroom. It’s so very Colby. He has a king-sized bed made of dark wood with a navy-blue comforter. Everything in the room is dark. His bed is actually made, and the pillows are arranged neatly on top. The only time I make my bed is when I wash my sheets. His dresser matches his bed, and there isn’t a speck of dust on top.

“So, you’re a major neat-freak, huh?” I ask. He ignores me and continues to dig through his closet, presumably to find me some old, dingy shirt to put on. He pulls out a plain, black, long-sleeve t-shirt and lays it on the bed before going to his dresser and taking out a pair of gym shorts.

“Umm, that’s basically all I have for you to change into. I’d give you pants, but I think you’d drown in them,” he says. He scratches his chin and looks around his room. “My bathroom is right there if you want to shower or anything,” he says, pointing to the closed door next to his closet. I stand in the middle of the room, clutching the towel to my chest and waiting for him to leave. But he’s just standing there, looking at me with an unreadable look on his face. Is he going to stand here the whole time?

“So, umm, I’ll just go in there, I guess,” I say. I grab the clothes from his bed, careful not to get them wet, and go into his bathroom. I turn on the shower, strip out of my sopping-wet clothes, and step into the warm water. He only has one body wash option and one shampoo option. He doesn’t even own a conditioner, which is surprising to me. I’ve always pictured him as a man who would be very diligent with his grooming. My poor curls. They’ll never forgive me for this.

I work the shampoo through my hair, making sure to get every fleck of mud and dirt out, and then I pop open the lid on his body wash. And holy smokes, it smells divine. It’s musky and woodsy, and I think I could stand here and smell this all day long. I squeeze some onto my washcloth and scrub my body. Is this what Colby smells like all the time? Whatever woman gets to cuddle with him is a lucky lady indeed. I mean, not because I like him. Only because she gets to breathe in this scent on a regular basis. That’s it. I still can’t stand the man. It doesn’t matter that he’s beautiful, apparently smells delicious, and is currently doing me a huge favor. He’s still an awful human being.

I get out of the shower and throw on his ill-fitting clothes. The t-shirt goes down to my knees, the sleeves are ridiculously long, and it still manages to be somewhat tight on my chest. Don’t even get me started on the shorts. I have to roll the waist approximately five million times just so the crotch isn’t down at my knees. I look ridiculous. And my poor abused hair and scalp. It was nearly impossible to get my hair detangled without any conditioner. I think I pulled half of it out of my head while in the shower, and it now lies in its watery grave on the bottom of Colby’s shower. I consider leaving it there just to drive him insane, but he is having a rare moment of kindness toward me. I guess I could do the same for him.

I clean up his bathroom, wrap my clothes in my towel, and go to the living room to find Colby. He’s lounging on his couch with his feet propped up on his coffee table. His arm is draped over his eyes, and I wonder if he’s sleeping. I clear my throat, and he lowers his arms. His eyes slowly scan my body, and he sits up straight as a board.

“I can wash those for you, if you want,” he says in a strangled voice. He hops up, grabs my soggy bundle of clothes from my hands before I can say anything, and rushes out of the room. Other than all those football and baseball games I had the misfortune to watch him play in when we were younger, I’ve never seen him move so fast. I’d think that he was desperate to get away from me if he hadn't been the one to invite me in.