“Charity?” My eyebrows hit my hairline. “How the fuck do you figure that?”
“How the fuck would I not figure that?”
“So I bought you a few things. So what? I’ve seen you buy Chloe and Violet stuff, just for the hell of it. How is this any different?”
“Seriously? You’re going to use the same argument you used about me staying here on this too?” she screeches. “Don’t be obtuse, Miles. You’re one of the most brilliant men I know. You can’t tell me you don’t know the difference between me shopping for Chloe and the baby and what you just did.”
“Actually, I can tell you that. What the hell did I do wrong this time?”
She looks totally disgusted. “You’re a lot stupider than people give you credit for.”
“Seriously?” I shove my hands deep into my pockets because there’s a part of me that wants to reach out and shake some sense into her. But I’ve never touched a woman in anger and I’m sure as hell not going to start now. “We’re going to fling insults at each other now? You’re the who has gone completely off the rails, who isn’t making any sense, and you’re going to call me stupid?”
“I’m making perfect sense, thank you very much!”
“Maybe to an insane person. But to anyone with a couple of rational, functioning brain cells, you sound like a complete lunatic.”
Her eyes narrow to slits. “My brain cells are functioning just fine. You’re the one who can’t put two and two together and come up with anything that even begins to resemble four.”
I’ve been trying to stay calm, but it’s getting harder and harder the more frustrating she gets. “What the fuck is the big deal? You need clothes, I bought you some clothes. You need shoes, I bought you a couple of pairs of shoes. It’s not like I went out and bought you the Hope Diamond or something.”
“So that makes it okay? The fact that you didn’t try to pay me off with a big, flashy diamond?”
“Pay you off?” I gape at her, not quite sure I heard right. But the mutinous look on her face tells me my hearing is just fine. “What the hell are you even talking about?”
“Do you want to tell me you bought me all this stuff because you wanted to?”
“Why else would I buy it? You needed clothes. I could provide them. What the fuck is the big deal?”
“The big deal is you didn’t buy them because you wanted to buy me a present. You bought them because you felt obligated to buy them for me.”
“Obligated?”
“Because we slept together.” She points at the foyer. “What’s out there isn’t a present. What’s out there is payment for services rendered.”
The top of my head is going to blow off. It’s actually going to blow off and my brain is actually going to explode. There’s no other explanation for what’s going on inside me right now. Services rendered? Services rendered? Services fucking rendered? Has she lost her fucking mind?
“Have you lost your fucking mind?” It may not be the most diplomatic question in the world, but it is the most diplomatic one I can actually get my mouth to spew right now.
“I was about to ask you the same thing.” Her voice breaks a little on the last word, but that just makes her glare harder and lift her chin higher.
Which is fine with me, because I’m pretty sure my glare is on point right now, too. I can’t even think of the last time I’ve been this damn insulted. “Really? Because I’m pretty sure you’re the only one in this room who just called yourself a whore. And me a john.”
“I’m not a whore, that’s the whole point. But you’re sure as hell treating me like one. So yes, I guess that makes you a john.”
Anger blasts through me in a way that doesn’t happen very often. Hot and seething and explosive, it fucking owns me. Owns every part of me. Makes it nearly impossible for me to talk, to think, to speak. At least not without spewing a bunch of shit I don’t mean and will regret later. Or spontaneously combusting right here in the middle of the kitchen.
After several seconds where I take a bunch of deep breaths and go over a bunch of elements of the periodic table in my head, I finally manage to ask, “Are you fucking serious right now? You showed up here with nothing but a backpack over your shoulder. No phone, no computer, no makeup, almost no clothes. Jesus Christ, you have a cut that practically runs the length of your foot because you don’t even own a pair of shoes right now. And because I feel bad for you, because I want to do something nice for you—to help you because your situation fucking sucks right now—I’m suddenly accused of treating you like a hooker? Of trying to buy your fucking services? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“You want to help. You feel bad for me.” She crosses her arms over her chest in the classic defensive posture. “Did it ever occur to you to ask me what I want before you decided to shower me with all this stuff barely an hour after I climbed out of your bed?”
“Fine.” I grit my teeth. “What do you want?”
“I don’t know yet. But I know I don’t want your sympathy. And I sure as hell don’t want that mountain of stuff in there that you bought for me.”
“Well, tough shit, baby, because you’ve got both.”
“No, I don’t. Call the delivery guy back. Have him return everything. I don’t want it.”