And my outfit could only be described as quirky.  In reality, quirky was kind.  I was wearing yoga pants and an oversized cat T-shirt.

At least it was a somewhat combative cat shirt.  The cat was sweet looking enough, a big, fluffy white thing surrounded by pink and blue flowers but at the bottom it read in clear black print: I WILL END YOU.

It was really kind of perfect if I thought about it, so I kept the shirt on, switched the pants out for some tiny shorts that showed off my legs, and focused on my hair, dragging a brush through it and doing a quick blow dry, just enough to make it look tousled instead of messy.

I’d just applied the bare minimum of makeup when the doorbell rang again.

I knew it was him.  I could feel it in my flesh, just like I could feel my temper bubbling up under my skin, ready for any excuse to ignite.

I was irate that he had the nerve to clash with me again so soon.  He’d lost the last round.  It had been a clear knockout win for me.

He should have the decency to stay down.

I waited in my room, wondering if he’d go away if I just didn’t answer.

But I wasn’t so lucky, and Demi had the blasted habit of answering the front door.

It was her tentative knock outside my bedroom that jarred me into action.  That and her kind voice calling through, “Um, Scarlett, I’m sorry, but, uh, Dante, I mean, The Bastard, is at the front door and refuses to leave.  Should I call the cops on him or something?”

“Sic Amos on him,” I called back.  It was a lovely thought, but unfortunately, our mutt was incapable of violence.  He thought every creature in the world was his friend.

Stupid dog.  He should have been a bitter ball of hate.  He had, after all, been thrown in a dumpster by some neglectful son of a bitch.  Didn’t he know that the world was out to get him?

“I doubt that will work,” she countered through the door.  “You know Amos isn’t likely to cooperate.  We could just ignore him until he leaves.”

I sighed.  It was tempting, but I was not in the habit of taking the coward’s way.  Also, Dante was a stubborn son of a bitch.  I doubted he’d just go away after coming all the way here.

I’d face him, if only to rub my win from last night in his lying, manipulative, evil, shoe-buying face.

I opened my bedroom door and met Demi’s worried eyes.  “I’ll handle him.  Don’t worry about it.  And eat as many cupcakes as you want.  All of the red velvet ones are for you.”

She cursed me for that (even her curses came across sweet, and dammit, even cute) and left me to it.

I didn’t rush to meet him.  I didn’t have a problem making him wait.  In all our time together, I rarely had.

Of course, I didn’t much dawdle, either.  Wasting his time was one thing, but it wouldn’t do to give him the impression that I dreaded seeing him as much as I actually did.

I applied one last precise bit of nude lip-gloss like it was war paint and went to answer the door.

I braced myself for the sight of him, taking one deep breath before I faced him again.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked the moment our gazes clashed.

He looked like hell, wearing the same suit he had the previous day, his golden hair unkempt, his normally precise, perpetual stubble turned to outright scruff.

He looked exhausted and hungover, but also, good enough to eat.

His eyes were taking in the front of my shirt, a smirk forming on his lips as he read it when he replied, “Love the shirt, tiger.  Very appropriate.  Would you believe me if I said I was in the neighborhood?”

“No.  You hate L.A. with a passion.  Why are you here?”

“To see you, of course.  Can I come in?”

“I’m surprised you recovered and made it here this quick.  Must be nice to have a private jet.”

His smirk died and his jaw set.  “Do you know how wasteful it is for one man to use a private jet to get around?  I’m not my dad.  I flew commercial.  The only thing wasted was my money on a last minute airline ticket.”

I rolled my eyes.  Oh Lord.  If I had a private jet, I wouldn’t fly commercial on a bet, in fact, I’d probably fly to New York for pizza on a whim, but then Dante had always seen his wealth as a sort of a hindrance, something to feel guilty about, a bigger weight on his shoulders than it was worth.

Again, that had always pissed me the hell off.  As a twenty-seven year old that still lived paycheck to paycheck, it was more infuriating than ever.  “If I see you driving around in a Prius, I’m seriously going to barf.  Right before I key the hell out of it.”

He grinned.  “Can I come in?” he repeated, tone polite, conciliatory even.

“What do you want?”  My tone was rude.  I was determined that his charm was not going to make me any less hostile.  On the contrary.

Because, obviously, I was contrary.

“Same thing I wanted last night,” he replied, face and voice gone very solemn.

“Not likely, stud,” I drawled out, though some part of me quickened at the thought.  Or at least at the picture his words brought up for me, a flash of the two of us writhing naked in bed.  “Not in the mood.  And even if I was, you weren’t exactly impressive enough for another round.  One lackluster performance from you was plenty to last me for quite some time, thank you.  You aren’t what you used to be, if you know what I mean.  Or hell, maybe I’ve just grown accustomed to having better.”