Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83814 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83814 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
“Would you just leave me alone?”
“Dump it when you’re done, put it in the dishwasher, and get a clean one.” He sits down at my feet, still sipping away at his coffee. I’m extremely tempted to kick it from his hand, but it’d ruin the couch and I’m the one that would have to sleep on the mess.
“It’s just water, okay? I’ll take care of it.”
“We don’t have maid, printsessa. I know you’re used to housekeeping back with your father, but I don’t pay for cleaners.”
“Are you saying you expect me to scrub the floors for you?” My eyebrows raise as I sit up on an elbow. “Are you kidding right now?”
He glares right back. “Is that what I said?”
“It’s the implication. You think because I’m stuck living with you, I’m just going to be your maid?”
“I think you should put away your little herd of water glasses.”
“Right, I get it, we’re married which means I should obey my husband, right?”
He smirks and leans closer, one hand on my ankle. “It would be a fucking miracle if you learned how to be obedient, printsessa.”
I kick out but he holds onto my leg tightly and catches it before I can do any real damage. “You’re right, the day I start following your order is the day I jump off the balcony out there.”
“I’m not asking much. Clean up after yourself. I don’t like clutter.”
“And I don’t like when you stomp around every morning. You know I’m trying to sleep, but you don’t care.”
“It’s the morning. You need to get up either way.”
“Not everyone’s on your schedule. Are you always like this?”
“Yes,” he says and lets go of my leg. He climbs to his feet and stares down at me. “Pick up after yourself. Don’t make this a thing.”
I flip him off as he walks away.
The thing is, he’s not wrong. The water glass situation got a little out of hand. And there was also the bathroom conundrum, when I left big globs of hair stuff in the sink and accidentally clogged it up. He fixed it, but also tried to ban me from using product, which isn’t going to happen. Then there’s the laundry situation: when the dryer is done, he takes out his clothes and he folds them right way. While I like to throw mine in a basket and leave it there for a while, until it eventually gets bad enough that I’m forced to put it all away again. Obviously, he’s not a fan.
We clash, to put it nicely.
He’s a stuck-up neat freak, and I’m much more loose and free with my living situation.
Things come to a head a couple days after the initial water glass skirmish. I’m minding my own business and putting his fancy espresso maker to good use when he comes storming down the steps. “Printsessa,” he says, practically fuming with frustration. “We need to talk.”
“Yes, husband?” I bat my eyelashes at him very sweetly.
His jaw works. “I looked in the guest room. And do you know what I found?”
“Blankets. Pillows. No, wait, hold on. A Tiffany lamp? A thousand dollars in unmarked bills? A clown. Two clowns!”
He is not amused.
“I found a pile of your clothes on the floor.”
I frown at him and sip my coffee. I swear, there are very few good things about living here with him, but that stupid espresso machine almost makes it worth it.
If I could inject that stuff directly into my brain, I absolutely would.
“And?” I ask, not really understanding.
“Clean clothes. Thrown in piles. On the floor. Not put away in drawers, not hung in the very large walk in closet, not even neatly laid out on the bed which would annoy me but I could live with it, but just thrown there. What is wrong with you, printsessa? Why do we keep doing this?”
I finally hit my breaking point.
He’s been badgering me about all this crap since I moved in with him. He’s been up my ass about everything, from the water cups (admittedly those are annoying) to the Q-Tips I leave out around the sink to my dishwashing skills.
I understand that we have different ideas of what’s clean, but the man is a monster.
“Are you seriously giving me shit for this right now? If you don’t like it, close the door.
“That’s not the point. This is our space now, and you treat it like it’s your own.”
“Actually, you treat me like you expect me to do everything your way. But like you said, husband dearest, it’s our space.”
“I can’t tolerate a mess. You know that.”
“And I can’t tolerate an overbearing dick head glorified room mate who forces me to sleep on the couch and is up my ass about every little thing. You realize my life got turned upside down for this? My friends won’t talk to me? Lev won’t return my calls or texts? Everyone hates me, Alex, and you’re seriously going to give me crap for my mess?”