Read Online Drop Dead Gorgeous by Linda Howard - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Linda Howard
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yesterday, no sex today, no sex tomorrow—no sex for as long as this headache lasted, which was probably several more days. Now I was really pissed at that psycho bitch in the Buick, for causing this unexpected deprivation—not that an expected deprivation would be any better, because it wasn't as if you could stock up on orgasms and keep them in the pantry until you needed one.
Which reminded me of something, and what better time to broach the subject than when I was hurt and he was in protective mode? It wasn't as if I had anything better to do. "I need to redo your house."
That brought him swinging around. The crotch of his pants was still tented, but his attention was riveted on me. From the wariness in his gaze you'd have thought I'd said, "I have a gun, and it's aimed at your heart."
He stared at me for several seconds, running our conversation through his mind. Finally he said, "I give up. How did we get from talking about my SDS and your concussion to you wanting to redo my house?"
"I was thinking about pantries." That wasn't all I'd been thinking about, but I didn't want to get into the whole stocking up on orgasms thing, when I was temporarily on the sidelines. Besides, he didn't need to know every little detail of how I got to where I was, conversationally speaking.
He gave up on trying to make the connection. "What about pantries?"
"You don't have one."
"Sure I do. It's that little room off the kitchen, remember?"
"You have your office in there, so it isn't a pantry. And your house is all wrong, anyway. Your furniture is all wrong."
His eyes narrowed. "What's wrong with my house? It's fine. It has good furniture."
"It has guy furniture."
"I'm a guy," he pointed out. "What other kind would I have?"
"But I'm not a guy." How could he be so oblivious to something so obvious? "I need girl stuff. So either I re-do your house, or we'll have to move somewhere else."
"I like my house." He was beginning to get that digging-in-his-heels expression that men get when they don't want to do something. "I have things just where I want them."
I gave him a speaking look, which made my head hurt more, because you sort of have to roll your eyes to do a proper speaking look. "At what point is it supposed to become our house?"
"When you move in." He said it as if that were the simplest, most obvious conclusion in the world. For him, I guess it was.
"But you don't want me touching anything, buying a chair that fits me , fixing up an office for me, or anything like that?" My raised eyebrows told him what I thought of that idea—and again, raising my eyebrows hurt, but when you don't use Botox it's really hard to talk without any expression. For the next few days, though, I thought I might try really hard to imitate Nancy Pelosi.
He scowled. "Shit." He saw the point of the conversation, which was that no way in hell was I satisfied with the status quo regarding his furniture, and if he wanted me living with him some adjustments had to be made, but he didn't like it. His eyes did that narrowed, piercing thing again. "My recliner stays where it is. So does my television."
I started to shrug, then stopped when I remembered that moving was not a good thing. "That's fine. It isn't as if I'll be in there."
"What?" He not only wasn't pleased to hear that, he was getting pissed.
"Think about it. Do we watch the same things on television? No. You want to watch baseball; I hate baseball. You watch all sports. I like football and basketball, period. I like decorating shows, and you'd rather have splinters shoved under your fingernails than watch a decorating show. So if you want me not to go mad and kill you, I'll have to have my own television and a place to watch it."
The truth is , I don't watch much television, except for college football, which I'll actually go out of my way to catch. For one thing, some nights I don't get home until after nine o'clock, and even when I do I usually have paperwork. There are a couple of
Which reminded me of something, and what better time to broach the subject than when I was hurt and he was in protective mode? It wasn't as if I had anything better to do. "I need to redo your house."
That brought him swinging around. The crotch of his pants was still tented, but his attention was riveted on me. From the wariness in his gaze you'd have thought I'd said, "I have a gun, and it's aimed at your heart."
He stared at me for several seconds, running our conversation through his mind. Finally he said, "I give up. How did we get from talking about my SDS and your concussion to you wanting to redo my house?"
"I was thinking about pantries." That wasn't all I'd been thinking about, but I didn't want to get into the whole stocking up on orgasms thing, when I was temporarily on the sidelines. Besides, he didn't need to know every little detail of how I got to where I was, conversationally speaking.
He gave up on trying to make the connection. "What about pantries?"
"You don't have one."
"Sure I do. It's that little room off the kitchen, remember?"
"You have your office in there, so it isn't a pantry. And your house is all wrong, anyway. Your furniture is all wrong."
His eyes narrowed. "What's wrong with my house? It's fine. It has good furniture."
"It has guy furniture."
"I'm a guy," he pointed out. "What other kind would I have?"
"But I'm not a guy." How could he be so oblivious to something so obvious? "I need girl stuff. So either I re-do your house, or we'll have to move somewhere else."
"I like my house." He was beginning to get that digging-in-his-heels expression that men get when they don't want to do something. "I have things just where I want them."
I gave him a speaking look, which made my head hurt more, because you sort of have to roll your eyes to do a proper speaking look. "At what point is it supposed to become our house?"
"When you move in." He said it as if that were the simplest, most obvious conclusion in the world. For him, I guess it was.
"But you don't want me touching anything, buying a chair that fits me , fixing up an office for me, or anything like that?" My raised eyebrows told him what I thought of that idea—and again, raising my eyebrows hurt, but when you don't use Botox it's really hard to talk without any expression. For the next few days, though, I thought I might try really hard to imitate Nancy Pelosi.
He scowled. "Shit." He saw the point of the conversation, which was that no way in hell was I satisfied with the status quo regarding his furniture, and if he wanted me living with him some adjustments had to be made, but he didn't like it. His eyes did that narrowed, piercing thing again. "My recliner stays where it is. So does my television."
I started to shrug, then stopped when I remembered that moving was not a good thing. "That's fine. It isn't as if I'll be in there."
"What?" He not only wasn't pleased to hear that, he was getting pissed.
"Think about it. Do we watch the same things on television? No. You want to watch baseball; I hate baseball. You watch all sports. I like football and basketball, period. I like decorating shows, and you'd rather have splinters shoved under your fingernails than watch a decorating show. So if you want me not to go mad and kill you, I'll have to have my own television and a place to watch it."
The truth is , I don't watch much television, except for college football, which I'll actually go out of my way to catch. For one thing, some nights I don't get home until after nine o'clock, and even when I do I usually have paperwork. There are a couple of
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