Suddenly, she snaps, "First off, stop thinking about me naked."
Taken off guard, my own mouth cracks open.
Of course she is naked in the scenario. Why would she be clothed? How bloody vanilla are your fantasies that you would assume she'd be clothed?
"Second, art of this medium, isn't about the pictures you may or may not see. Art, and I mean all art, not just paintings and sculptures, but music and literature and theater, are reflections of the soul. They're products of passion. They're humanities way of whispering through a medium to ignite, or reignite, those little sparks that set your spirit on fire. Maybe the reason you don't get it is simply because you have yet to see one that speaks to you." Her speech shuts my mouth, which is when she finishes with, "Hope you find it soon because I'm done talking to you."
She turns and heads away from me once more, except this time I'm not certain if I'm following her just because of the physical attraction or an uncontrollable need to argue with her.
A light knocking on the front door drags my attention away from the disappointing text.
Who the hell could that be? Jovi would've texted if she left her keys and Merrick...well as much as I hate to say this out loud, that asshole has his own key. I swear sometimes it's like he already lives here.
The knocking persists and I stare at the door from across the room wondering how long it will continue before they give up.
Not a huge fan of answering the door. Period. Truthfully, the only person who tends to knock at this time is our bitchy downstairs neighbor who thinks she has an elephant parade living above her.
The knocking suddenly gets a louder and sharper, almost impatient. Curiosity yanks me onto my feet and towards the demanding presence waiting on the other side. I attempt to flatten my wavy hair that had been doubling as a pillow and wipe away any possible drool that proves you can't really learn the answers to a test through osmosis.
Believe me. After almost ten years of cramming for tests, if it hasn't worked by now, it's never going to.
I unlock the door and crack it open to see someone I have no reason to.
What the hell? Are you seeing this?
The blonde model from the art showing flashes me the same arrogant grin he was flaunting last night.
What? No. I don't know his name and don't technically know that he's really a model, but come on. Teeth that white? Eyes that bright? Face that flawless? Build that...bicepy? He's either a goddamn model or the gene pool lottery winner of the millennium.
"Latte?"
Without hesitation I shut the door and lock it again.
"Not a morning person?"
"No. I'm not a stalking person."
"I'm not stalking you."
"The fact you're on my front door step would be a valid argument against that." Leaning my body slightly against the door, I snip, "And I don't know about whatever country you cruised over from, but stalking in the United States is very much illegal."
I refuse to admit how sexy his accent is. Wait. Shit. I just did, huh?
"Illegal in Doctenn as well," he states matter of fact. "Fairly certain stalking is illegal in all countries."
"Yet here you are."
A long moment of silence falls, but I'm not remotely convinced he's given up.
Come on. What kinda guy would go through all this effort into finding you then give up the minute you told him too?
I lift myself onto the tips of my toes to peer through the peephole.
Like a know it all, he lifts one of the cups in front of it, and repeats, "Latte?"
"You mean the coffee you poisoned so you could rape and molest me?"
"Doesn't rape cover molesting?"
Glaring at him through the tiny hole, I grunt, "Semantics? Really? You're a complete stranger on my door step, stalking me and offering me a drugged beverage yet you wanna argue sexual semantics?"
The blonde chortles and shakes his head. "Not a complete stranger. We met last night."