Sledgehammer (Hard to Love 2)

Me: “You don’t have to come up.”

Him: “It’ll go faster if I do.”

Me: “I’d rather you didn’t.”

Him: “I’m coming with you.”

Me: What the f––“Mmno, you’re not.”

Him: “Yeah, I am.”

Me: “Let–me–hand–you–a–dictionary–so–you–can–understand–what–I–am–saying. You are not coming up.”

Without warning, he yanked me out of the passenger seat and into his arms. After that, he proceeded to stalk into the narrow entrance of the building––which I didn’t mind so much seeing as my shoe situation hadn’t improved––and deposited me on my feet. Our eyeballs battled for supreme dominance of the galaxy. This ended in a draw. Then, without another word, he stepped past me and jogged up the stairs.

I mean, stubborn is putting it lightly. I don’t want him in my apartment. One, it’s as big as a matchstick box. And two, it’s a mess. I haven’t had time to clean or do laundry in a week, couple that with the diminutive size of the space and you get a perfect disaster. I didn’t want Mr. Perfect seeing it like this.

And now he’s standing in my bedroom. Hands stuffed into his tuxedo pants pockets, he’s looking around. What the hell is he doing in my bedroom? Damn, this is awkward. He’s taking up way too much space, sucking up all the oxygen. I can’t think with him in here.

“I’ll help you pack.”

Yeah, not happening, but I’m too tired to argue with him. Glancing around, his eyes fall on my unmade bed––and stay there.

“Are you here to do a health inspection or help?”

That snaps him out of whatever is going on in his head. I get down on all fours, my attention momentarily diverted as I grab my suitcase from under the bed. Bad move. Real bad. Because when I glance up, I find him in the process of opening the top drawer of my dresser.

“No! Not that one!” I screech.

Too late. Too freaking late. Vaughn is staring at the contents of the drawer, his expression frozen. Until I see his lips move. He’s counting them. Oh dear, he’s counting them. His eyes grow a little wider. He finally reaches seven and stops. Little does he know that eight is in the Amazon box near the front door.

“Don’t touch,” I say, with an exaggerated smirk.

A quick scowl darkens the perfection that is his face. “I wasn’t planning to.” His attention returns to the contents of the drawer. When he starts to close it, I decide to double down because it’s that kind of night.

“Might as well leave it open. I have to pack those.”

That perfectly styled head slowly turns in my direction. I get a blank, assessing stare. He thinks I’m messing with him, but I’m not. When I continue to stare back in silence, he blinks twice and rubs his face.

“You’re bringing all of these?” he says more than asks, his tone reeking of disbelief. His doubt earns him a one shoulder shrug.

“I can’t bring Jamie and leave Wes. Those two are an item. Sometimes I’m in the mood for Gabriel, sometimes Garrett. And Zeke has abandonment issues. He’ll get upset if I leave him behind.”

Guilty as charged. I name my vibrators after my book boyfriends. If you have a problem with it, get on your high horse and go file a complaint with the Bureau of I Don’t Give A Stinking Shit.

He briefly squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, sighs deeply. “I’ll be on the couch while you finish this up.”

Fifteen minutes later, I’ve grabbed enough clothes for the week, packed each and every one of my book boyfriends, and swapped my busted Cinderella dress for a sweater and jeans. I walk into the living room to find Vaughn sitting upright on my couch with his head resting on the back pillow. He’s sleeping so peacefully I almost feel bad waking him.

Watching him with unfettered access takes me back to the day we met. Not only is the godforsaken memory annoyingly preserved in high definition, it’s also taken up way too much space in my brain––space that could otherwise be used for good.

It was the start of football season. Minutes before I was to be picked up by Calvin’s manager who, Camilla explained, also lived in the city and had offered to give me a ride to the stadium, my toilet backed up. True story. The dumb twats that live upstairs apparently like to play Russian roulette by flushing tampons. Which means everyone in the building suffered the consequences of their stupidity thanks to the ancient New York City plumbing. Hence, when the doorbell rang, I was expecting Eddie, my middle-aged building superintendent. What I was not expecting when I opened the door to my apartment was the standard-bearer of masculine perfection in a custom made suit. What I was not expecting was to get sucker punched in the cooter by a pair of big brown eyes framed with impossibly thick lashes.