Do Your Worst(46)

He’d moved upstairs, finally, to one of the south-facing bedrooms. Like all the parts of the castle that backed up to the cliffside, this space had sustained less damage than those that faced the road. All the walls and ceilings still stood in good repair, as well as most of the floor—though some of the wooden boards had warped from water damage. The sagging remains of a bed could be found in the center of the room, the linens so moth-bitten they might as well have been thread.

Operation Roller Skates would serve two purposes. One, she could observe any annoying habits Clark had that she might have missed. Personally, she was hoping for nose picking.

Her second goal was simply to bother him—make sure he kept up his side of the loathing. Riley would have made a deliberate plan to provoke him if she didn’t think simply being herself would achieve the same outcome.

He made her job easier by providing a camp chair that she unfolded with a satisfying snap. She didn’t know why he brought it. Presumably he took breaks sometimes. But the thing was pretty comfy and even had a cup holder for her water bottle! Score.

After planting herself in his periphery, she took out a magazine. This shouldn’t take long.

She’d worn an outfit designed to provoke him. A white peasant blouse see-through enough that the bra he’d gotten up close and personal with during that trip to her bedroom showed through, plus a pair of ass-squeezing vintage bell bottoms she’d thrifted. When topped off with stiletto boots, the outfit was deliciously impractical, breaking almost every rule he’d given her about proper work-site attire.

Infuriatingly, Clark managed to ignore her for most of the morning, even if he did huff out an irate little breath every time he walked past her chair.

Finally, when she took out the big guns—uncapping a bottle of nail polish that immediately unleashed headache-inducing fumes to touch up her manicure—he cracked.

“Don’t you have work to do?” He wrinkled his nose. “A caldron to stir somewhere?”

“I’m not a witch.” She didn’t practice magic, she tussled with it. There was a difference.

Though on second thought, she wouldn’t say no to a cauldron. It would come in handy. She was constantly ruining stockpots cleansing those dolls.

“Could have fooled me,” he muttered from where he was sorting through the remains of a dilapidated closet.

Riley smiled as she painted her pinky nail. This was exactly the kind of cranky unpleasantness she’d come for.

Under no circumstances could she allow the animosity between them to fade enough that the curse no longer qualified them as enemies. In fact, maybe she should be even more provocative.

“Clark,” she called, finishing off her left hand.

“Yes?” He was in the process of setting up a giant ladder.

Riley could have waited until he finished or offered to help, but neither of those behaviors would have served her objective of raising his blood pressure.

“What would you say are your worst traits?”

He poked his head around the corner to frown at her. “Do people normally offer up this kind of information to you?”

She chewed her bottom lip, considering. “Actually, yeah.”

Riley didn’t know if it was the bartender thing, or the “men love unloading their emotional baggage on women because they don’t feel they have societal permission to form intimate relationships with same-gender friends” thing, or the curse-breaker “I will help solve your problems, even the ones that seem impossible” thing, but she added, “Kinda all the time.”

“Well, considering the rocky history of our brief acquaintance, you’ll excuse me if I don’t jump at the chance to offer you any more of my vulnerabilities.”

She felt a twang of discomfort. He was referencing the family drama she’d uncovered. But this was different. They liked teasing each other. They were good at it. And what was more, it was safe. Bickering gave them something to hide behind.

“Oh, come on, it’ll be fun,” she needled. “Here, I’ll start you off. You’re overly critical.” She began ticking things off on her newly manicured fingers. “A complete control freak, and all of your shirts are just slightly too big.”

Clark stared at her, eyes coolly assessing, not picking up his sword right away.

“Oh,” he said after a beat, “I see. You’re here to satisfy your hero complex.”

“My what?” Sure, she’d chosen an occupation where she could help people, but so did doctors and teachers and stuff. No one accused them of ulterior motives. “I don’t have a complex.”

“You absolutely do.” He watched her fidget, his face going severe, closed off. “But I’m not interested in being rescued. Thanks.”

Riley struggled to reconcile the grating metal of his tone. Her? Rescue him? From what? Being rich and clever and too handsome for his own good?

“In fact”—Clark had worked himself up enough that there were scorch marks high on his cheekbones as he fussed with the ladder—“you might consider that you’re the one who needs saving.”

“Excuse me. What did you just say to me?” He’d called her every kind of liar, but this was another step beyond.

“You’re reckless and obstinate.” Clark counted on his hand, mirroring her previous action. “And if I hadn’t been at this castle, looking out for you—thankless task that it is—you would have done yourself a serious injury by now, most likely multiple times over.”