Simanda one shots

I hate you... I love you

Simon Cowell's moans of pain brought music to my ears.

Music that went like: "muahaha!" which was then followed by "bwahaha!"

This was of course repeated many times. It truly warmed my heart.

The guy in front of me was clutching his face and muttering, "Going. Kill. You. So. Dead."

But he totally had it coming. See, Simon Cowell was an ass. Simon Cowell also just saw me half-naked.

My reaction was to throw a shoe at his face.

And, well, it wasn't my fault I had the arm of Superman! Or was it Superwoman? Whatever it was, it caused me great happiness – happiness I hadn't felt since I poured apple juice on his head. That was actually last week.

So it was safe to say Simon and I weren't the best of friends. We weren't friends. Full. Stop.

Which was why I was clutching the towel around my chest tightly and pointing to the door. "Get out, get out, you pervert!"

This was what he got for coming inside my room just when I was going to drop the towel and change. My ugg boots never had a better use than slapping Simon across his pretty face. Cue my evil somewhat maniacal chuckle!

Said pretty face was being clutched by both hands, but I could see his narrowed gaze. "If I was going to perve, it wouldn't be on you," he retorted.

I huffed, forgetting for a moment that the only thing I was wearing was a towel around my body. "Actions speak louder than words!" I replied while motioning him to leave. "Now get out!"

For a moment Simon just glared at me, but he walked out anyway, taking slow steps backwards.

I slammed the door at his face the moment he left the vicinity of my room.

Simon: 0. Amanda: 1.

Score!

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The problem with Simon was that I had to know him. Or, rather, correction: there were many problems with Simon. The biggest problem was that I shared the same working place with him. We were both judges on the british show Britain's Got Talent. And as if that wasn't enough our mums were best friends since kindergarden.

So after a day of work where I was thinking I'd escaped his oh-not-so wonderful presence – bam! He was there on my couch, grinning. And it was a familiar grin; it was the grin he gave me thrity years ago, right before he sneaked up behind me and cut off one of my pigtails with a pair of scissors. Seven-year-old Simon Cowell had no mercy back then either. And seven-year-old me? I drew on his face the next time I slept over at his house, with a permanent marker that did not come off easily. Hah!

Well, back to the situation at hand.

thirty-seven-year-old Simon Cowell was no better, grinning his oh-I-am-so-going-to-get-you grin at me while he lay sprawled across my couch.

I would say he looked demented but it was a blatant lie. Puberty was unforgivably kind to him. The girls at work and whole London thought so, too.

Humph! But I knew the truth.

Under that seemingly pretty exterior, Simon Cowell was evil.

"Hello, Amanda," he said, smiling, his eyes fixed on me. Some might say he had eyes like the devil...but not me, of course.

"Hello, Simon." I matched his smile with one of my own, trying to work out his game.

Simon just continued to smile, like he knew something I didn't. Not that I wanted to know what he knew – nothing good ever came out of Simon's mouth. True fact.