❝You think we're going to live happily ever after? Newsflash: I'm not a fucking princess, you're no prince and this fucked up thing between us is not a fairy tale.❞
Ian raises one perfectly arched eyebrow, unfazed by my outburst. ❝Fairy tales can be...
The prince isn't always charming and the princess isn't always a virgin. —Alison Bliss, Playing With Fire (Tangled in Texas, #2)
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Ian drools when he sleeps. I would find it disgusting on someone else—anyone else actually—but strangely, on Ian, it's endearing to me.
I roll my eyes as he snuggles his head into my bony shoulder and instead, lightly push his head against the sofa armrest. Brave is still playing on the TV and I'm wondering if Ian is really tired or if he just finds the story of Merida extremely boring.
He snorts a little bit and I chuckle lightly so as not to wake him up. Yeah, he's definitely tired. He's been trying to make ends meet lately by working with Jameel; these days, the tattoo parlor isn't getting enough customers. Apparently, he gets more customers when it's Valentines Day or December 31st. Late summer isn't a great season for customers.
The doorbell rings and I wince. Oh yeah, Ian ordered food from some place to be delivered to us.
I glance down at him again. He looks relatively innocent and peaceful, and waking him up now won't be great. I have to wait till he starts snoring so that I can get it on video and embarrass the life out of him.
The doorbell rings again and I sigh, standing up. I didn't even know Ian had a working doorbell till now. I just find pleasure in knocking on the door till my fists hurt or his neighbor across the hall tells me to keep it down.
I pull out my wallet as I open the door and I can't help but blink at the delivery woman in front of me. She's pretty with striking blue eyes and blonde hair. She's wearing casual clothes–a pink polo shirt and a pair of jeans and she's pretty—
But her prosthetic arm is really making it hard for me to focus on her face.
I avert my gaze after a moment and look down at the large bag she's holding with her other hand. "Um. How much?"
The woman raises an eyebrow. "$450?"
She has an attitude but what am I to expect from someone who works at some kind of restaurant that charges more than four hundred bucks for food that I'll finish in less than thirty minutes?
Also, why the hell is Ian still buying expensive food when he should be saving? Thank goodness he's sleeping; he would have argued my will away to pay. Like I'm rich and he has expensive taste; I think we're compatible. ...Or will be, in another life.
I ignore her attitude as I open my wallet—because I did stare at her arm for like, a solid minute—and add a $50 dollar bill because I'm a generous tipper. "Here," I push the money into her prosthetic palm and take the bag full of food from her. "Bye."
