Knock Love Out (A Sensual New Adult Crossover Romance) by Pella Grace Page A
Authors: Pella Grace
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Ugh, my mascara is super smeared and I look like a raccoon.
When I’m finished fixing my face and hair, and spying on what’s in his medicine cabinet and small linen closet, I go back to the kitchen. He has a beer in one hand, taking a sip as the other hand flips something over in a pan. The stereo plays low in the background.
“You said turkey , right?”
He glances to me briefly. I don’t respond beyond a simple nod of my head. I’m just sort of … observing this whole ordeal.
How the hell did I end up in the kitchen of a produce clerk, watching him make me a turkey sandwich? A toasted turkey sandwich.
Can the man get any better?
Drunk. Snooping through his stuff? Wondering why …
I point to his face.
“One of your eyes is blue and the other green. I never noticed that before. How is that possible?”
His lips smirk. “It happens when a pretty girl is near me.”
“Funny.”
He flips the sandwich in the pan. “Not trying to be. It’s the truth.”
“It’s amazing .”
“You should see what my other body parts do around pretty girls.” He laughs into his beer bottle.
“Very mature, Cash.”
“Not trying to be.”
He slides a sandwich onto a plate and hands it over. I follow him into the living room and we sit, sunken into an enormous bean-bag chair. I sort of love it. He turns off the stereo from one remote, using another to flip on the flat screen.
I pick at the edge of my sandwich. “Not to be rude, but I’m just curious about something, Cash.”
He takes a bite of the food, keeping his eyes on the television.
“Mm?”
“If you can afford all of this stuff, selling your art, then … why can’t you just give your dad money? Help out the grocery store’s financial situation?”
He settles on an action movie, lowering the volume.
“My father has a really bad problem with pride.”
“He won’t take your money?”
Cash shakes his head. “Plus, while all of this looks cozy, I’m not exactly rich , Lilla. The store is in serious debt.”
I nod, going back to my food. He remembered the mustard. I relax into the beanbag, feeling the filling form around my body.
“I haven’t sat in one of these since I was nine.”
He takes a sip of beer, before passing it to me. “One of the perks of dating a kid.”
My heart sours. “That’s not what I meant. I like it. It’s comfy. I like everything in your place, actually. Even the art I’ll never understand, drunk or not drunk.”
Cash smiles, sinking down into the chair. “You don’t have to understand everything. If you like it, then, you like it. Why complicate shit that isn’t complicated?”
“I just thought artists had some underlying meaning for things they paint.”
“I do,” he nods, “but it doesn’t always have to be obvious, or even meant for people to see at full face value. Sometimes it’s nice to have a secret only you know.”
My insides flutter. I pass him back the beer. My eyes look to the large canvas on the wall. A lot of red and black splotches.
“What does that one mean?”
“To who?”
I roll my eyes. “To you .”
“I slept on the beach for three hours during the hottest part of the day. For six hours straight all I saw was fucking spots,” he laughs.
“Why would you need to paint that?”
“I liked that beach, but I am opposed to painting palm trees?” He shrugs. “I told you, not everything has some deep-seeded meaning.”
“Which one has a deep meaning to you?”
“Those aren’t on display, Honey-girl. Not in this room.”
“Where?”
“Finish your food, Lil. I’ll show you later.”
***
I’m lead up a small staircase to a floor above the main living area. It’s like two different worlds. Messy and chaotic. Papers everywhere. Stacks of canvas and paint. Cash clicks on a lamp that doesn’t own a shade. Takes a seat on a paint-splattered wooden stool. Watching as I snoop through his things. There’s just … so much. I don’t know where to start.
Ugh, my mascara is super smeared and I look like a raccoon.
When I’m finished fixing my face and hair, and spying on what’s in his medicine cabinet and small linen closet, I go back to the kitchen. He has a beer in one hand, taking a sip as the other hand flips something over in a pan. The stereo plays low in the background.
“You said turkey , right?”
He glances to me briefly. I don’t respond beyond a simple nod of my head. I’m just sort of … observing this whole ordeal.
How the hell did I end up in the kitchen of a produce clerk, watching him make me a turkey sandwich? A toasted turkey sandwich.
Can the man get any better?
Drunk. Snooping through his stuff? Wondering why …
I point to his face.
“One of your eyes is blue and the other green. I never noticed that before. How is that possible?”
His lips smirk. “It happens when a pretty girl is near me.”
“Funny.”
He flips the sandwich in the pan. “Not trying to be. It’s the truth.”
“It’s amazing .”
“You should see what my other body parts do around pretty girls.” He laughs into his beer bottle.
“Very mature, Cash.”
“Not trying to be.”
He slides a sandwich onto a plate and hands it over. I follow him into the living room and we sit, sunken into an enormous bean-bag chair. I sort of love it. He turns off the stereo from one remote, using another to flip on the flat screen.
I pick at the edge of my sandwich. “Not to be rude, but I’m just curious about something, Cash.”
He takes a bite of the food, keeping his eyes on the television.
“Mm?”
“If you can afford all of this stuff, selling your art, then … why can’t you just give your dad money? Help out the grocery store’s financial situation?”
He settles on an action movie, lowering the volume.
“My father has a really bad problem with pride.”
“He won’t take your money?”
Cash shakes his head. “Plus, while all of this looks cozy, I’m not exactly rich , Lilla. The store is in serious debt.”
I nod, going back to my food. He remembered the mustard. I relax into the beanbag, feeling the filling form around my body.
“I haven’t sat in one of these since I was nine.”
He takes a sip of beer, before passing it to me. “One of the perks of dating a kid.”
My heart sours. “That’s not what I meant. I like it. It’s comfy. I like everything in your place, actually. Even the art I’ll never understand, drunk or not drunk.”
Cash smiles, sinking down into the chair. “You don’t have to understand everything. If you like it, then, you like it. Why complicate shit that isn’t complicated?”
“I just thought artists had some underlying meaning for things they paint.”
“I do,” he nods, “but it doesn’t always have to be obvious, or even meant for people to see at full face value. Sometimes it’s nice to have a secret only you know.”
My insides flutter. I pass him back the beer. My eyes look to the large canvas on the wall. A lot of red and black splotches.
“What does that one mean?”
“To who?”
I roll my eyes. “To you .”
“I slept on the beach for three hours during the hottest part of the day. For six hours straight all I saw was fucking spots,” he laughs.
“Why would you need to paint that?”
“I liked that beach, but I am opposed to painting palm trees?” He shrugs. “I told you, not everything has some deep-seeded meaning.”
“Which one has a deep meaning to you?”
“Those aren’t on display, Honey-girl. Not in this room.”
“Where?”
“Finish your food, Lil. I’ll show you later.”
***
I’m lead up a small staircase to a floor above the main living area. It’s like two different worlds. Messy and chaotic. Papers everywhere. Stacks of canvas and paint. Cash clicks on a lamp that doesn’t own a shade. Takes a seat on a paint-splattered wooden stool. Watching as I snoop through his things. There’s just … so much. I don’t know where to start.
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