THE BOOKWORM'S GUIDE TO DATING by Emma Hart is COMING!!
“Go away!” I yelled.
I never said I had manners.
“Kinsley!” Josh knocked on the door. “Let me in.”
“I said go away!”
The handle jiggled. “Damn it, Kinsley!”
I hissed out a curse. Damn my terrible habit of forgetting to lock my doors during the day.
Not that it was the day.
All right, fine, I was awful at locking my doors all the time.
“I’ve told you about—what are you doing?”
I turned my head to the side and stared at him. “I have no idea what you mean.”
I did. I knew what he meant. I was in the universal period pain position. You know the one. Head flat on a pillow, ass up in the air, thighs drawn as close to my stomach as I could get them, and my arms wrapped around my cramping lower stomach. The occasional rock back and forth to try and coax the muscles into relaxing.
“Why are you—you said you didn’t feel well.” Confusion marred his handsome features, clouding his gaze.
“I don’t feel well. I’m dying,” I confirmed. “My uterus is staging a coup and trying to murder me.”
His gaze darted across my body before he shrugged. “Good thing I came then.”
“What on Earth makes you say this is a good idea?”
He held up two brown paper bags in triumph. “I brought supplies.”
“Uh-huh. And don’t worry, I went to Dartree Mountain so nobody saw me.” He grinned. “Are you ready for this?”
“No. No woman will ever be ready for a male savior when she’s on her period. She doesn’t want to be looked after. She wants to curse the world and damn all reproductive systems forever. Cry. Scream. Shout a little. It’s worked for centuries. I see no reason to change the system now.”
He paused. “So I’ll start, then.”
I rolled my eyes, and he took that as his cue because one by one, he unloaded things from his grocery bags.
“Chocolate. Chips. Muffins. Ice cream. Lemonade. Wine. Cookies. Cheese. Ibuprofen. Acetaminophen. Aspirin. And—”
“Are those sanitary pads?”
He looked down at the green cube and frowned. “That’s what the woman in Walgreens said.”
“You asked a woman in Walgreens about sanitary pads?”
“I wasn’t going to ask a man.” He met my eyes. “Are they the wrong ones?”
Weirdly, no. But then everyone I knew used them, so…
I pushed myself up to sitting and crossed my legs. My lips pulled to one side as I stared at the little packet in his hand. “No, they’re the right ones.”
He visibly relaxed. “Thank fuck for that, because there was a lot of colored packages in that aisle, and I was starting to feel like I was on the boat in Willy Wonka's damn factory.”