Has that door always been there? I don’t remember seeing it before.
“Well, if there’s no answer when you knock at a door, it generally means no one’s there, and you come back later. It’s not a fucking invitation to come on in.” His tone is crass.
It pisses me off.
And I really hate it when he swears at me.
“Seriously?” My eyes drag back to him. “I have to come in rooms in this house to clean them, and they have to be empty for that to happen.”
“Were you coming in here to clean?”
“No, but—”
“But what?” he snaps.
“I just wanted to say thank you.” My voice rises an octave.
His eyes widen and then flash to the coffee and bag on his desk. He stares at them for a long moment.
My pulse is thrumming in my neck, and I feel hot.
Very slowly, he brings his eyes back to mine. “Well, you’ve said thank you, and now, you can go.”
I feel stupid.
I don’t know what I expected from bringing him a little thank-you gift. Maybe a smile. A, You didn’t have to. I didn’t expect him to be a wanker.
Why am I surprised?
This is who he is—Kas-hole.
Honestly, I don’t know why I bothered.
Screw him.
I’m about to turn and leave, but my eyes snag on that door he’s still guarding like a sentry.
Why don’t I remember that door? I’ve been in here a handful of times before, and I don’t remember it being there. And doors don’t just magically appear.
I nod my head at the door. “You didn’t show me that room on my tour of this place. Is it a room I need to clean?”
“No,” he snaps, his tone low and dark.
Something has shifted in his expression. He still looks angry, but he also looks…uncomfortable. It’s there in his eyes.
His discomfort pricks my attention because one thing Kas never is, is uncomfortable.
Arrogant? Mean? Angry? A prick? Yes, to all of those things.
But never uncomfortable.
“Okay.” I take a step back. Turning, I pivot on my heel to leave.
His voice hits my back when I reach the door. “My office is off-limits to you now. I don’t want you coming in here. Ever.”
I stop in the open doorway and turn back to him. “Yes, Mr. Matis.” I even curtsy, just to be a bitch.
He frowns. And, with darkness on his face and in his eyes, he turns away from me.
I grab the door handle and start to pull the door closed. But not before I see Kas pull a key from his pocket and put that key in the mystery door to lock it.
An hour later, I’m head in the oven, cleaning it, when I hear footsteps come in the kitchen.
I know it’s Kas by his footfalls.
How sad is that? That I know him by the sound of his steps.
Well, whatever.
I’m still pissed at him. He’s a dick, and I’m ignoring him. I’m not in the mood to be yelled at again.
His presence has reignited my flame of anger, and it’s turned into a raging inferno.
I continue scrubbing the oven clean, probably harder than necessary.
“Daisy,” he says my name softly.
His voice is like a gentle brush of fingers over my skin, which breaks out in goose bumps.
Why does he so easily affect me?
It’s annoying. He’s a knobhead. A big knobhead who yells at me all the time.
Fixing steel into my spine, I ignore my traitorous skin, and I ignore him.
I hear him sigh loudly behind me.
“Daisy…earlier…I acted like a total dick. I’m…sorry.”
What?
My head jerks up with my shock at his apology, and I smack it on the roof of the oven.
“Shit!” I wince. Dropping the cleaning sponge, my rubber glove–covered hand goes immediately to my head.
I pull back out of the oven, rubbing at the sore spot.
“Are you okay?” Kas’s voice comes from close behind me.
“I’m fine,” I huff.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.” Without looking at him, I walk over to the sink.
I yank the rubber gloves off with more force than necessary. I toss them on the side of the sink and start washing my hands.
He might have said sorry, but I’m still mad, and I think I have a right to be.
Sure, he pays my wages, but that doesn’t give him the right to be an almighty tosser to me ninety percent of the time. It negates all the times he has been nice to me. And his lame-arse sorry resulted in me smacking my head. So, yeah, there’s that as well.
I hear him move, and then he’s standing beside me, his back leaning against the kitchen counter. He curls his hands around the edge.
I don’t look at him. I stay focused on washing my hands, which are already clean. I just need something to do with my hands, or I might do something crazy, like strangle him.
“Daisy…”
I shut off the tap and grab the hand towel from the counter. Walking away, I dry my hands.
I need the distance.
I’m sick of him running hot and cold. I’m tired of being yelled at. And of him treating me with kindness one minute and then treating me like I have the plague the next.
Sure, he has come in here and apologized for, yet again, being a dickhead. Don’t get me wrong; the apology is a first and a shock. But I’ve had enough of his dickish ways.
The silence between us stretches and drags. I’ve overdried my hands. Now, I’m counting the tiles on the wall.