It’s when I’m washing my hands and contemplating putting his basil scented soap on my face, that I hear a loud thump from the other side of the wall, followed by a loud shriek.
I open the door and look over to the see the door next to me ajar and light spilling out into the hall. I peer my head around the corner. Blake is inside the room, standing beside a giant, and seemingly empty, aquarium.
“You okay?” I ask him, slowly coming inside.
Panic contorts his face as he quickly glances over at me. “Yes. Kind of. Fluffy just scared the ever loving shit out of me.”
I stop a few feet away and peer at the glass, now seeing a few rocks, small logs, sand and a tree stump, as well as a shallow dish of water inside. “Uh, Fluffy? Your cat?”
Please say it’s still a cat.
“If Fluffy was a cat, my life would be so much easier and I wouldn’t have to change my knickers every time I come in here.”
I keep walking over to him, slowly, though he raises his palm out to stop me. “You don’t have a deathly fear of spiders do you?” he asks.
“Spiders?!” I exclaim and then I’m looking at the glass again and now, now I can clearly see a furry brown tarantula bigger than my hand working its way across the sand. It’s like bear, if it had eight legs, a million eyes and could fly across the room at you.
“Oh hell no!” I yell and I’m spinning on a dime, running straight of the room, down the hall and to his fucking door, my back plastered against it, one hand on the knob. The apartment is so austere and bright, it’s hard to imagine I just saw that fucking thing in one of the rooms.
Moments later, as I’m catching my breath, Blake rounds the corner.
“So sorry,” he apologizes, looking as white as a sheet.
“What the fuck was that?” I practically gasp.
“That was Fluffy,” he says.
“He’s a fucking tarantula!”
“I’m very aware of that.”
“Why do you have a tarantula as a pet? Oh my god, what’s wrong with you?”
A shiver runs through him which he tries to shake out. “And oh my god,” I say, remembering his posture in the room, hearing that womanly shriek, “are you afraid of him?”
“It’s true that I am deathly afraid of spiders,” he says, heading right for the fridge and bringing out two beers. As he deftly pops the caps off both, he says, “But Fluffy is Kevin’s and I said I’d take care of him. Turns out it’s indefinite.”
He strides over to me and hands me a beer, his fingers brushing against mine as he does so. I’m so on edge that my skin feels electrified by his touch.
“I don’t get it,” I say, softly now because he’s nearly invading my personal space.
He runs his hand over the stubble on his strong jaw and nods, smiling to himself as he looks elsewhere. “I don’t get it either. I guess Fluffy was an escape artist and Angelica, that’s Kevin’s mom, said he couldn’t keep him anymore.”
“I don’t blame her,” I say, feeling like a million spiders are crawling all over me right now. “And you willingly let an escape artist tarantula into your home?”
He sighs and leans back against the kitchen counter, legs crossed at the ankles and swigs his beer. “Yeah. Bloody brilliant, isn’t it? But Kevin really loved that ugly abomination and he was in tears when it happened so I told him I’d care for him until his mum has a change of heart. And I’m pretty sure now that’s never going to happen, so it looks like I’m stuck with the damned thing until Kevin forgets about him. Or loses interest. Or develops arachnophobia.”
I have to admit, this is extremely sweet of him to do this for his stepbrother. “You must be close with him. Kevin, I mean. Not Fluffy.”
He scratches at his cheek. “Not really. I’m trying. His mum has been working more and more, she’s a lawyer, and I feel like I’m the only one he has lately that seems to care. My dad is so invested in the shop and trying to save it and…” He trails off and clears his throat, as if he’s said too much.
And of course I can’t help but bite. “Is the shop in trouble?”
“Nothing to worry your pretty little head about, peach,” he says dismissively.
I raise my brow. “I told you not to call me peach.”
“What’s with your hatred of nicknames?”
“I don’t have a hatred of nicknames,” I argue. “I have a hatred of your nicknames. Believe me, I’ve had plenty.”
Oh great, now I’ve said too much.
“Such as?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say quickly. “We should get back to work.”
“You can work after meeting Fluffy? It usually takes me a pint afterward to calm down. I’m supposed to feed him tomorrow and I usually have to get pretty bombed in order to work up the nerve.”
So that explains the chirping box in his car. “Crickets?”
“Yeah, live ones. It’s pretty barbaric.”
“And how does your revolving door of women handle Fluffy?”
His head jerks back as he stares at me quizzically. “Revolving door of women? Who says that? And why do you care?”
“I don’t care,” I tell him, looking away. “It’s just something you’re very proud of. You’ve slept with nearly half the class.”
“Not you,” he points out.