The Undercutting of Rosie and Adam (Hart and Mercy, #3)

by Megan Bannen

“You. Total ninny. And if anyone could be described as a hammer, it’s you, bowling through life like a tornado and whacking anything that looks like a nail. Ninny. Hammer.”

Rowr, the tabby groused at him in a way that said, How dare you fail to greet me. But also, don’t touch me, or I will kill you. Unless I want you to pet me, in which case, pet me, or I will kill you.

“Does this one have a name?” “Blammo Tinky Fartface,”

In fact, most of the time, she called the cat Tinky, or occasionally Fart, but she wanted to make a bona fide god who had witnessed the creation of the world and the birth of humanity say Blammo Tinky Fartface. That was true power.

“They’re old. They’re not dead. I’m sure they’re thinking the same thing I am.”

It was like that saying about always being a bridesmaid and never a bride, except she was always the mourner, never the mourned.

It was a ludicrous reason to like someone, but when you were a big girl navigating a world in which the Old Gods’ notions of femininity lingered like Man Smell in a locker room, you tended to like your fellow women of a certain size.

Rosie had zero romantic interest in the man, but those forearms could inspire sonnets.

Three cheers for bespoke menswear, she thought.

The man might lack joie de vivre, but Salt Sea, he smelled divine.

Adam Lee was unexpectedly amenable to riding in Rosie’s autoduck, which was a little disappointing; she had looked forward to annoying him.

Rosie was gobsmacked that Reticence Personified had willingly started a conversation.

“I prefer lingerie or delicates or intimates. Get it right, Tighty-Whities.”

Take strength from your intimates, she told herself.

Not that inadvisability had ever stopped Rosie a day in her long life, but she did have her partner and the World Blandness Champion to consider.

The bespoke clothing, the debonair removal of his jacket, the big brains, the intense focus, the giving of zero fucks… There was a certain allure.

“Hey, it’s Rock On or Fuck Off! What’s up, RoFo?”

Anyhoo, I saw this cat in a gift shop, and since it looks like Stinky Buttcheek, I thought you’d like to have it for your collection.

“I might have some glue in here.” Probably for sniffing, thought Rosie.

“That guy should be busting mobsters or teaching

middle school.”

He had abandoned his waistcoat, and sweat now glued his wrinkled dress shirt to his torso, a sight at which Rosie respectfully refused to gawk (even though she wanted to).

She didn’t speak whatever language he had uttered, but she knew a salty word when she heard one, and Rosie was inclined to like people who cussed. In her experience, the foulmouthed tended to be honest and authentic.

But Adam Lee’s hand was a lovely thing to behold—fine-boned yet strong, elegant yet calloused, a masterpiece of contradictions.

You are going to find all of this incredibly sexy when you have a moment, her pervy inner monologue informed her.

His eyes had gone dreamy with culinary appreciation, which made him look fairly delicious himself.

As she handed him the dripping soufflé dish, she couldn’t help but notice his forearms once more. How romance-novel cliché of me, she thought as she forced herself to stop ogling the guy’s appendages and look elsewhere.

“You are difficult to forget.” “Well, you could’ve fooled me.” “One does not forget a stunning woman with eyes like garnets.”

Her mind pulled on rubber gloves, busted out a scalpel, and got busy doing some exploratory linguistic surgery.

The last thing she thought before she died was That’s my handkerchief.

“Keep waving your panties around, Foxy, so we can play a few more rounds of Let’s Torture the Straight Guy,” suggested Duckers.

“First of all, pocket men deserve love as much as tall guys, so stop being small-phobic.”

“Being careful is not my strong suit.”

She wanted to share a quiet corner with him and take the time to appreciate the amalgamation of supposed imperfections that somehow added up to a man who was achingly beautiful to behold.

“I was going to give it to the stone-cold sexy little guy who doesn’t get mail, but like, he left.”

“No, the whole jacked thing is new, but if I don’t get to short-shame your boyfriend, you don’t get to objectify my ex.”

This is a logical solution to a difficult problem.” “You don’t care about logic. You just want to fly.” “That, too.”

“Act first, think never,”

“Mm-hmm. You keep telling yourself that. Bye! Have fun with your pocket man!” “Stop short-shaming!” Rosie shouted after Duckers as he scooted out the door. “It’s not shaming if you really do want to put him in your pocket!” he shouted in reply as the door swung shut behind him.

“If there is a smidgen of like or love there, you may as well go for it. Those smidgens can be hard to come by.”

“Enjoy your pocket man.”

“Sometimes, a small kindness can be quite… large… to the recipient.”

You just want to see him in suits again and swim in his cologne, his eyeballs accused her.

She filed the swoony sentiment away for later obsession before she stood and clapped her hands.

“Feel free to exercise a modicum of caution.”

“Fuck my life,” she muttered a half second before a bolt of lightning struck her and she died for the third time in a week and a half.

Did he honestly not know that his deadpan humor delivered in that sexy rasp did more for her than five strapping young Zeddie Birdsalls?

“You enjoy a man’s yearning and suffering?” “Fictionally speaking? Very much.”

“I can’t die, but if you continue to look at me like that, you might give me a heart attack.”

What in the Salt Sea was coming out of her mouth right now? It was just so hard to think straight with Adam’s tight derriere saying hello to and shaking hands with her pants feelings.