Page 81 of Unsuitable

My head jerks up with my shock at his apology, and I smack it on the roof of the oven.

“Shit!” I wince. Dropping the cleaning sponge, my rubber glove–covered hand goes immediately to my head.

I pull back out of the oven, rubbing at the sore spot.

“Are you okay?” Kas’s voice comes from close behind me.

“I’m fine,” I huff.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.” Without looking at him, I walk over to the sink.

I yank the rubber gloves off with more force than necessary. I toss them on the side of the sink and start washing my hands.

He might have said sorry, but I’m still mad, and I think I have a right to be.

Sure, he pays my wages, but that doesn’t give him the right to be an almighty tosser to me ninety percent of the time. It negates all the times he has been nice to me. And his lame-arse sorry resulted in me smacking my head. So, yeah, there’s that as well.

I hear him move, and then he’s standing beside me, his back leaning against the kitchen counter. He curls his hands around the edge.

I don’t look at him. I stay focused on washing my hands, which are already clean. I just need something to do with my hands, or I might do something crazy, like strangle him.

“Daisy…”

I shut off the tap and grab the hand towel from the counter. Walking away, I dry my hands.

I need the distance.

I’m sick of him running hot and cold. I’m tired of being yelled at. And of him treating me with kindness one minute and then treating me like I have the plague the next.

Sure, he has come in here and apologized for, yet again, being a dickhead. Don’t get me wrong; the apology is a first and a shock. But I’ve had enough of his dickish ways.

The silence between us stretches and drags. I’ve overdried my hands. Now, I’m counting the tiles on the wall.

Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I toss the towel on the counter and turn around to face him. “Is there something you need me to do?”

That’s it, Daisy. Keep it work-related. Don’t make it personal.

Is it personal?

Kas warily eyes me. Then, he tips his head in the direction of the bag of muffins I brought him, which is now sitting on the center island.

“You can help me eat those.” His words are soft but ineffective.

“No, I’m good. Anything else?”

He stares at me, surprised and also like he’s not sure what to do now.

What did he think was going to happen? That I’d fall at his feet and say, Yes, Kas! Of course I want to help you eat those muffins that I brought you and put in your office before you yelled at me.

Not likely, arsehole.

“Is there something else you need?” I push.

I’m pushing because I want to get out of here and away from him.

His brows draw together in consternation. “No.”