House of Payne: Rude by Stacy Gail

things had gotten better still. Sure, every now and again she had restless nights where she found herself braising beef short ribs or trying to create a skinnier version of cream cheese frosting at four in the morning. But as the years unfurled and she grew more confident in the stability of her world, those endless nights had become few and far between.
    Then Rude blew in like an ill wind, and before she knew it she was watching the sun rise while finishing a major chunk of her latest cookbook manuscript. Considering how much work she’d gotten done last night, she should probably dedicate the damn book to him.
    It was understandable that Rude had her rattled. She couldn’t be anything else when he suddenly decided his role in her life was now going to be that of a lover, not a fighter. That was akin to having the well-known bad guy in the world of wrestling suddenly try to wear a halo. He was lucky she hadn’t thrown a chair at him.
    God, she needed sleep. She was now thinking in wrestling analogies.
    The coffeehouse thrummed with morning business and smelled like heaven. While Rude went to the counter to give their orders, she managed to snag a couple of fireside armchairs designed to swallow the unwary sitter in a cloud of opulent softness. She was just trying to figure out how to steal the chair she was sitting in without anyone noticing when he returned with their drinks, and her kleptomaniacal thoughts disappeared at her first sip.
    “Holy crap, that’s not a skinny soy mocha,” she gasped, and checked the cup to see what was written on it. “I think they gave you the wrong order, Rude. This tastes like the devil’s own coffee.”
    “I had them add a couple shots of espresso to make sure you didn’t fall flat on your face.” He lowered himself into the chair she’d saved for him closest to the fire, then frowned at her across the low end table situated between their chairs. “As soon as a table opens up, let’s grab it. You’re too far away.”
    “I like the fire.” And she really liked the distance, she thought, again giving her drink another try. When she feared her face would freeze in an “ick” grimace, she excused herself to doctor it with as much sweetener as she could scrounge. But when she got back, her satisfaction with her drink vanished when she saw her seat had been taken.
    “That… asshole,” she muttered under her breath, eyes narrowed not at the oblivious seat usurper, but at Rude. She marched over to where he sat and loomed up from behind, refraining from smacking the back of his head through sheer force of will. “You suck, Panuzzi.”
    He glanced casually over his shoulder at her as if he’d known she was there all along. “Oh? What’d I do?”
    “It’s what you didn’t do.” She cocked her head toward the cushy seat that someone else’s ass was now sinking into. “You didn’t save my seat, you dick.”
    “Oh.” His smile was unconcerned. “I guess I didn’t.”
    Maybe it was the lack of sleep, but at that moment attacking him seemed like a logical response. “You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to stand right here on this very spot and slurp coffee as annoyingly as I can in your ear. Oh, and I’m going to tell your mother what an ungentlemanly, not-seat-saving jerk you are while I’m at it.”
    “Oh noes, you’re not gonna tell my mommy on me, are you?”
    Grrrr . “On second thought, I’m just going to pour my coffee over your head and call us even.”
    “Don’t even think about wasting good Italian espresso.” He seemed genuinely alarmed at the thought, and set his drink aside. “Would it make you feel better if you were sitting here?”
    “At the very least.”
    “I was hoping you’d say that.” Without warning, he caught her wrist, and with a flip of his hand and a well-timed tug, a maneuver he’d no doubt learned in some badass martial-arts class, she wound up landing on his lap, with barely a jostle of her bruised ribs. It was almost