Fangs, Fate & Other Bad Decisions Chapter 11

Standing in front of the empty sink, looking out onto the neighbour’s backyard over our shared fence, I’m lost in thought and purposefully ignoring him.

His earlier touch and his comment about being able to hear my heartbeat have thrown me for a loop that’s not the fun kind like on a rollercoaster. I’m sure he was mistaken when he said he could *hear* it. He probably misspoke and meant to say *felt*. No normal person can *hear* another’s heart’s steady rhythm unless you hold your ear against their chest, right? *Right? Right.*

Even though I can’t see him as he’s moving about the kitchen behind me, I can *feel* him. A strange awareness awakened in me since I touched him this morning. It is as if this invisible string is floating in the air, tethering us together. It’s the strangest thing, and I’m having difficulty wrapping my head around it. *Maybe I just haven’t had enough coffee yet.*

I feel him before I hear him speak. He’s so close that the hairs on my neck are standing up in awareness. “What are you looking at, Little Menace?”

I make the mistake of turning my head in his direction to answer him, and realise he’s *right there*. He had dipped his head lower so he’s almost eye level with me. Staring into his electric blue eyes *(wait, wasn’t his eye color dark blue earlier?)* feels like I can trust him with my whole life and soul.

We’re caught in a moment where there is nothing and no one beyond this bubble that’s wrapped itself around us. My breath hitches, and I instinctively feel my torso twist towards him, as if my body has a mind of its own and wants this man to hold it and never let go.

His gaze darts between my eyes, down to my mouth, and back up again. His hand drifts to the small of my back, and my body comes alive. Sparks run along every inch of skin as they spread outward from where his featherlike touch has made contact. The blue flame that ignites in the depths of his gaze makes my soul sing in an unfamiliar recognition.

How is this possible? That a man I met less than 24-hours ago has generated more emotions and feelings within me than my ex could ever do in the ten months I put up with his ass.

*Nope. Absolutely not. This is not an acceptable reaction. Walk away from the attractive man, Harley.*

With resolve I’m not sure where it comes from, I clear my throat and step to the side, away from his touch and intense focus. Turning around and leaning my ass against the sink’s edge, I answer him without making eye contact, “I’m thinking of everything that still needs to be done at the store.”

Evasive, yes, but I might as well start laying the brickwork for my plan I devised earlier. You know, the one where I get rid of him without seeming rude.

He hasn’t moved, which doesn’t give me much breathing space so I can get my heart rate under control, but at least he isn’t trying to consume my soul with his intent gaze anymore. “Store?” he asks, nonchalantly.  

Deciding to feed him a few vague breadcrumbs of my life, I answer, “Yeah, I own a bookstore a couple of blocks from here.” With that information, he won’t be able to become a stalker, seeing as there are various bookstores downtown. Business hasn’t been the greatest recently due to a large commercialized bookstore that has opened three blocks down from mine – much to my annoyance. Even some of the other smaller, niche bookstores with whom I have a friendly working relationship are having trouble keeping their head above water.

And I highly doubt he would make the effort to visit every single one of those stores to find me. Mr. Fancy Pants here would have way more important things to do, like flying to Milan for his bi-monthly haircut.

“You own a bookstore?” comes his question while an incredulous scowl draws his brows together.

Like it’s a superpower, he causes my hackles to rise and my ire to surface with a vengeance. “What the *fuck* is that supposed to mean?”

Before he can answer me, though, which is probably a good thing because he would have most likely said something to make me want to throw him in a wood-chipper, my doorbell rings.

Stomping in that direction, disregarding the rude pile of dung standing in my kitchen as if he owns it, I swing it open without looking through the peephole, and with so much force, it bangs against my hallway wall. *Shit, is that a dent?*

“What?” I blurt out, but I’m instantly ashamed because this is not me. I’m not impolite to strangers without cause.

The delectable young man in front of me hesitates for a moment, but then a slight smile lifts the corners of his mouth, “Are you Miss Harley?”

Well, slap me silly and call me a giddy goose. But this gentleman has just made me feel like I’ve been dropped between the pages of a regency novel where the dapper young lad courts his lady over tea and crumpets while her ladiesmaid keeps watch. *Swoon.*

Flustered and floundering, my mouth forgets to activate its filter before I answer him, “I am her and she is me.”

My embarrassment is instantaneous, but the young fellow takes pity on me and only chuckles at my ridiculousness. Opening his mouth, hopefully to tell me who he is and why he’s standing on my doorstep, his eyes catch onto something behind me. His posture suddenly becomes rigid, and his mouth shuts so quickly that I can hear his teeth clack together. *I hope he has a good dental plan.*

“Mr. Draeven,” he says, with a slight bow of his head.

“Griffin,” comes Thane’s curt voice from behind me. *So, it’s not just me he’s an asshole to. Good to know.*

“I have your packages, sir,” Griffin says as he steps to the side, allowing a black courier van parked next to the curb in front of my house to come into view.

The side door has been slid open, and two men in black coveralls and utility boots lift grocery bags from inside. At least twenty more are waiting in neatly stacked rows.

As the men come sauntering up the walkway to my front door, Thane places his hands on my hips and pulls me out of their way. As the first guy passes him, he lifts his hand and shows him toward the kitchen. “In there,” is his only instruction to them.

My mouth hangs open as I watch the men, even Griffin, cart bags upon bags into my home and place them on any available surface in my kitchen. Thane gives me a cheeky grin now and then when he sees I’m still rooted to the same spot with an aghast expression on my face. I can’t *wait* for these newcomers to leave so I can hand him his ass in a handbasket.

After the umpteenth trip, the van is finally empty, and the two helpers get inside and slam the door shut behind them. Griffin turns to us on his way down the steps with a polite, “Sir,” and that head bow thingy again.

Thane only dips his head at him with no word spoken, which is my cue to make Thane eat humble pie.