Home > The Complete Kiss Me Series(32)

The Complete Kiss Me Series(32)
Author: Emma Hart

Boris.

Boris was in my house, and he was humping my newly acquired stuffed raccoon that was somehow on my kitchen floor.

He was going like hell. Impressively fast, actually. His little ass moved frantically, and his tail flapped like a flag in a hurricane. Little squeaky grunts accompanied his one-man party, and I wrinkled my face up in disgust.

I grabbed my phone from the counter and snapped a five-second video. I sent it to Preston.

ME: Well, that’s ruined.

I put the phone back down and clapped my hands loudly. “Boris! That’s enough!”

He ignored me, continuing on his little sex show with my poor toy.

“Boris!” I grabbed the broom from the utility room just off the kitchen and used it to shove him toward the back door.

His chittering became distressed, but I gave him one good push, and he fell over the threshold, getting off the stuffed animal. One more push and he was a few feet away from the door.

He bared his teeth at me.

“Hey!” I gave another push of the brush in his direction. “Get out, you furry pervert! You come back when you’re ready to apologize for defiling my new friend!”

I slammed the kitchen door to punctuate my point. It rattled through the kitchen, and I locked it, just in case one of them had figured out how to open the door at any point.

It wouldn’t surprise me since they were quite intelligent.

I picked the stuffed raccoon up by its ear and carried it through to my empty washer. After setting it on a gentle wash with a view to do it again tomorrow morning, I grabbed my phone on the way to get a bottle of water from the fridge. There was a message from Preston that I opened as soon as I shut the door.

PRESTON: It was inevitable really, wasn’t it?

ME: I put him on the table. Boris is a horny little fucker. He needs help.

PRESTON: I don’t think they do therapy for wild animals.

ME: They should. They need it.

PRESTON: Halley, you named wild animals.

ME: How else do I tell the greedy little shits apart?

PRESTON: Most people don’t.

ME: I’m not most people.

PRESTON: That might be one of my favorite things about you.

ME: That feels like a save.

PRESTON: From what?

ME: The fact I name wild animals and can tell them apart.

PRESTON: Forget I said anything.

ME: No. We had a great night tonight and you’ve all but insinuated that I need therapy for naming wild animals.

I was allowed to joke about it. It was my thing. It was my jam. Wild animals, specifically raccoons, were my thing. I loved them, even Boris.

Preston didn’t get to joke about that.

I hated that I was a little hurt about what he’d insinuated. And he had—he’d pointed out that it’s not normal to name wild animals and tell them apart.

Well, he had another think coming his way, didn’t he? I had a friend who lived in the UK who rescued wild hedgehogs. And you know what? She named those prickly little bastards and she could tell them apart whenever they rolled into her backyard.

In fact, she messaged me new images of them whenever a baby headed her way and needed to be rehabbed. Three in five years—Miss Bella, Lord Pindsvin, and Hoggie.

Apparently, ‘pindsvin’ means spiky pig in Danish. There never was and never would be a more perfect name for a hedgehog in all of eternity, so be it, blessed be, a-freakin’ men.

So Preston could joke all he wanted, but there were people out there who loved the natural wildlife.

Honestly, he was lucky I fed raccoons and didn’t rehabilitate hedgehogs. I’d send them after him and see how he liked getting pricked.

ME: I’m going to bed. Goodnight.

I locked my doors and turned off all lights on my way upstairs. I removed all my makeup and changed into a tank top and old shorts adorned with faded Mickey Mouse heads.

Without looking at my phone on the nightstand, I removed my makeup, brushed my hair, then climbed into bed.

I wasn’t going to give Preston Wright another moment of my weirdo thoughts.

 

 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

 


* * *

 

 

PRESTON

 

 

How To Fit Your Foot In Your Mouth

 


I had no idea what I was watching on TV.

It was some bullshit talk show, but none of what they were talking about pertained to my situation right now.

I doubted any would.

There was nobody else like Halley.

Somehow, I’d pissed her off. I wasn’t entirely sure how I’d managed to do it, but if I had to guess, it was my flippant comment about naming wildlife.

It was weird, but that was Halley’s kind of weird.

It was part of her.

I should have known better than to bring it up like it was a fault of hers. The truth was that it wasn’t. It wasn’t a fault. It was one of her strongest qualities.

I’d have to tackle her to make her listen to me now though.

There was something to be said for texting, and none of it was good.

A sarcasm font would be fucking magic, thank you.

Now, I had to fight my way out of this. I knew it wouldn’t be easy. Halley stood by what she believed in with a fervent determination that was nothing short of admirable. I also knew that she didn’t suffer fools and that she wasn’t interested in anyone who was going to devalue anything she stood for.

The only good thing here was that she didn’t have a choice but to see me. The booth meant that we had to spend hours a day together, and there was no way she could avoid me entirely.

My front door shook as someone banged against it. The incessant rattling was quickly joined by a second fist, and I didn’t need an expert to tell me who was outside.

The cavalry had arrived.

I could have sworn that Reagan and Ava had jobs.

I tugged the door open just enough that my face fit through the gap. “Who let you in?”

“Mrs. Hennington on the second floor,” Ava answered.

“I buzzed her and told her you’d been a fuckboy, and she let us in. After she’d had an explanation over what a fuckboy is,” Reagan continued.

“Miscommunication does not equal a fuckboy,” I shot back. “Why are you both here?”

“We’re here to help you.” My sister retied the scarf that held her long hair back from her face. “Believe it or not, we actually believe that you and Halley have what it takes to go the distance, but we aren’t happy with you right now.”

“It was a miscommunication!”

Ava shoved at the door. “Lesson one: never joke about what she cares about the most.”

“Thanks, Sherlock. I hadn’t figured that out.”

“Are you sassing me?” She stalked across my living room and snapped her fingers. “I didn’t think so!”

“Settle down.” Reagan wandered into my kitchen and opened my fridge, peering inside. “If this is going to work, we need to be on the same page. Preston, where are you?”

“In my apartment,” I said dryly. “Being assaulted with two wannabe cupids who can’t let nature take its course.”

“You’ll fuck up nature.” Reagan shut the fridge and pulled herself up onto the counter. “I have not dedicated this much time to getting your sorry asses together for you to falter at the first hurdle.”

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