I swear, I don’t have a foot fetish, but a man in jeans and no socks is . . . bites down on fist . . . just irresistible.
“If you’re expecting me to make you feel better, you have lost your mind.” I grab the tea bags from the cabinet and pull one out. Then I reach for a mug.
“Making some tea?”
“Very observant,” I say.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you make tea.”
“It’s because you’re teaching children—Lord help them—while I usually drink my tea, but I need something to calm me so I don’t pierce your eye with my finger.”
“I should be grateful, then.”
I shimmy past him and fill up my mug with water.
His hand lands on my arm. “Wait, what are you doing?”
“Making tea.”
“What are you doing with that?”
I tear my arm away from him. “Getting the water. Jesus, you’d think for someone who grew up in England, you’d understand the concept.”
I walk over to the microwave and open the door, only for it to be slammed shut.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asks, and I’m pretty sure this is the first time I’ve seen him lose his cool. He’s been pretty even-tempered about everything that’s happened, but me making tea? He’s been set off.
“Heating up my water.”
“In the microwave?” he asks, insulted.
“Yes, in fact, you are correct about that. Very, very observant.” I go to open the microwave again, but he slams the door once more. “Uh, excuse me, you’re being rude.”
“You’re being rude,” he shoots back.
“Excuse me?”
“You don’t make tea in the microwave. That’s . . . sacrilege.”
I set my mug down. “Well, then, how else am I supposed to heat my water?”
He gestures toward the stove. “In the kettle.”
Yes, that’s how I would normally boil the water, but after some fun research, I found out heating water in the microwave is a cardinal sin to Brits. But I didn’t think it would get this kind of reaction from him.
And just like that, I’m starting to feel better.
“That kettle is purely for decoration.” I reach for the handle of the microwave again, but he maneuvers in front of me and takes the mug out of my hand.
“You are not microwaving your water. Jesus Christ.” He takes the kettle off the stove and fills it up with water. He places it back on the stove, lights the burner, and steps away.
“Excuse me, that’s not how I make my tea.”
“It is now,” he says, guarding the tea kettle like it’s the Queen of England. Arms folded over his chest, he stares me down, as if begging me to test him.
But I don’t. I let it rest . . . for now. I have one more trick up my sleeve.
“This is taking forever,” I say. “It’ll be tomorrow by the time the water is ready.”
“I literally just put it on the stove.”
“And if it was in the microwave, then I would have it ready by now.”
“In thirty seconds? Your water would be the perfect steeping temperature after thirty seconds?”
I roll my eyes and walk away. “You’re being a tea snob.”
“Rightfully so. Christ. You can’t just microwave the bloody water, Coraline.”
He’s legit upset.
Actually agitated.
Maybe even slightly stressed, and honestly, this is the best thing that’s happened to me since he moved in.
This moment, right here, with his hands pulling through his hair in distress . . . over tea.
If only I knew this was going to throw him over the edge, I would’ve started microwaving tea water on day one.
While I wait for the kettle, I figure I might as well strike him while he’s weak. He’s confused, he’s disoriented, and he’s out of his mind with worry about tea, so I might as well go in for the kill.
I thought I’d never use my body as a tool in this cockeyed tournament of deceit, but desperate times call for desperate measures. He’s clearly in distress, which means I need to mess with his mind.
From my dresser, I pull out my skimpiest pajamas and head into the bathroom. Once the door is shut, I shed my clothes and slip on my black bikini-cut shorts—if that’s what you want to call them. They’re cut high, up to my bikini line on the sides, but offer a little bit of coverage like a short. And then I slip on the loose, silk crop top that offers absolutely zero support. I check myself out in the mirror and slowly smile. My midriff is showing, the shorts are sitting low, and the crop top, if I move quickly enough, shows the underside of my boobs. This—this is dangerous. But after today, I’m willing to work with dangerous.