Chapter Four
Drenched in sweat after a long workout, Cuss thanked God for gyms. Sometimes it was the only thing that took the edge off. After the last couple of days and because it had been even longer since he’d worked out, he needed a good one.
He was still angry Tiff hadn’t gone to him. Some of it wore off after their conversation last night, namely after hearing her say she’d miss him if he got locked up, but his anger resurfaced every time he saw her do something like double check her door was locked, and he remembered how bad that asshole fucked with her.
Not wanting to leave Tiff, he hadn’t considered going to a nearby gym since it meant he’d have to take her along. He didn’t want to do that after he dragged her to the mall to purchase clothes and necessities, which he desperately needed considering he hadn’t packed. In truth, he hadn’t planned on staying. He’d been too focused on beating the prick he hadn’t thought ahead.
So he relegated himself to doing pushups in her living room. When she caught him, she told him they had a gym in her building. He told her he didn’t mind working out in the living room. She insisted, so he plainly told her no way he’d leave her alone. She said she wouldn’t be. Donna and Marianne would be there soon. Only when they arrived and assured him they wouldn’t let anyone in did he agree.
He took her phone and searched for his number, smiling when he realized she still had it saved. He stored his number in her speed dial then looked to her, standing in her kitchen pouring a glass of wine.
“Baby girl?”
She glared, set the bottle on the counter, and crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not a baby, and I’m not a girl, Cuss.”
He smiled wide, handed her the phone, then gripped her hip and hauled her toward him suddenly. She let out a small gasp and tilted her head to meet his gaze. One of the things he loved about her, she was tiny compared to him, always had to look up. When he held her, he could encase her whole body in his.
“I’m first on your speed dial. Anyone knocks, you don’t open. You call me someone knocks, kicks, slides a note under your door, or does anything else. You don’t leave this apartment, you call me.”
“Are you going to stop calling me ‘baby girl’?”
He smiled wider. Before he could stop himself, he leaned in, pressed his lips against her forehead, picked up her keys, and strode out the door.
As the memory came to mind, he grinned. He took off his sweat-soaked shirt, grabbed the keys from beside the bench, and headed out of the gym. After climbing two flights of stairs, he went to unlock the door and hesitated, deciding to knock instead. A moment later, Tiff parted the door, barefoot, wearing a pair of jeans that fit her like a glove and a loose shirt that hung off her shoulder.
His stomach knotted. Happened every time. He should be used to it by now, but he wasn’t.
Her gaze hit his then trailed down his chest. It’d become a habit of hers to do that, and he loved it so much at that moment he was considering never wearing a shirt again.
“Tiff?”
Her gaze snapped to his, and her face flushed a pretty pink shade. She did that a lot, too. He liked it, had always liked it but loved it when she did it after he caught her checking him out.
“Trying to get me to spank you again, baby girl?”
She flushed a brighter shade. “W-what?”
“I know you liked it, but this ain’t the way.”
“What?”
He wanted to lean into her just so he could feel the warmth of her spread over him, but he couldn’t, not soaked in sweat. “Told you to call me anyone knocks.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I looked through the peephole. I knew it was you.”
He couldn’t help it then and leaned into her, forcing her to further angle her head. “Shouldn’t be looking through the peephole ’cause don’t know if you’ve heard, bullets go through doors.”
“Annoying,” she mumbled then turned on her heel.
Before she could take a step, he grasped her arm and tugged her making her face him again. “Next time, I spank you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You—”
“Don’t try me, baby girl.” He couldn’t help but add the last part knowing it’d get a reaction out of her, and he loved when she reacted, too. Her green eyes glimmered, her face flushed, and though she held her composure, never raising her voice, she gave him lip.
“I’m not a baby, and I’m not a girl.”
He chuckled, released her, and strode inside. She backed away. He closed the door with his foot.
“You’re being an asshole again.”
“Only ’cause you get cute when you’re angry.”
Her eyes widened.
Guess she didn’t like being cute. “It was a compliment.”
She released a breath. Then her face changed. He didn’t know how to describe it, but he knew how it made him feel—sad.
“Dinner will be ready when you’re done with your shower.”
He lifted a brow. “You cooked?”
She nodded.
“For me?”
“Well, yeah, for both of us. Donna and Marianne can’t stay. Donna is breaking our ‘no studying on Sundays’ rule since finals are coming up, and Marianne has a date.”
She cooked for him. Him. No one had ever cooked for him. Well, except for his mother, but it happened less and less after his father left. He hadn’t had a home-cooked meal for close to eleven years.
She was the type of rich girl who’d cook for her family instead of having a maid do it, the type of woman who got pleasure out of cooking meals for her man.
His chest tightening, he smiled. “Haven’t had a home-cooked meal in ages.”
She shrugged. “It’s not a big deal. It’s just—”
“It is to me. Thanks.”
He waited for Marianne and Donna to leave before he headed to the bathroom, removed his clothes, and jumped in the shower.
Showered, he strode out of the bathroom and into the living room. Towel wrapped around his waist, he rummaged through the bags of purchased clothes. Pulling out a pair of athletic shorts, boxers, and a wife beater, he turned intent on changing and spotted her staring. He grinned. Before he walked out of sight, he caught her flushing in that pretty way.
Clothed, he strode back into the living room slash dining room area. Tiffany had already set the table, so he took a seat. She walked in a moment later carrying two plates of food. She placed one in front of him and took a seat across from him, setting her plate down.
He glanced at his food, a nice big piece of steak, mashed potatoes, and steaming broccoli. It smelled good, so good he dug in immediately. When the steak hit his tongue, favors assaulted him. His girl could cook. “Amazing, Tiff,” he said with a mouthful of food.
She smiled. “Thanks.”
She took a bite of steak and mashed potatoes and swallowed before she asked, “Your mom doesn’t cook?”
He shrugged. “Used to, but after my father left, she had to get another job to make ends meet, and well, she didn’t have the time for it, so I cooked.”
“Thought you said you didn’t know how?”
“Making pasta and rice isn’t really cooking.”
“In that case, frying a steak isn’t either.”
He nodded. “Yeah, it is. Adding whatever you added to this one to make it taste this good and getting it the perfect medium is.”
“So you’ve never cooked a steak or chicken?”
No, he hadn’t. Meat was expensive, more so than pasta and rice. While he lived at home, having steak was a big deal. It only happened three times a year when their mom would take them to dinner on their birthdays. Not something he wanted to admit. It’d only prove how different they were, and he was trying to get them on the same playing field.
He shrugged.
“Why?”
He dropped his fork and met her level stare then decided he’d tell her only because if they ever made it to anything, she’d probably find out either way. “Didn’t have much money growing up. A steak dinner was a luxury.”
Her expression saddened. “Oh…”
“Ate lots of pasta, rice, canned beans, and spam. Shit like that. Probably explains why I was so thin back then, not enough protein.”
Her stare glued to her plate. “Well, you certainly don’t have that problem now though I’m sure the gym has a lot to do with it.”
They ate in silence for a while longer.
“That was your ex?” The question spilled from his lips. He’d been thinking about asking her. He wanted to know what happened, needed to know if there was a chance of reconciliation.
Her gaze snapped to his. “Who?”
“The guy from yesterday.”
“Mark…” she whispered. “How’d you know?”
He knew because he’d seen them together two years ago. He also knew because that guy had done nothing to disguise he still had feelings for her and had done nothing to hide how deep those feelings ran. “Could tell he still wants you.”
She laughed, but it sounded forced. “Yeah, I know.”
She was holding back, but he didn’t know why. Did she love him? If she did, why weren’t they together?
She pushed food aside on her dish and avoided his gaze. “It’s kind of complicated.”
His stomach turned. He lowered his head, staring at the half-eaten plate of food in front of him. “Things are only as complicated as we make them.”
He felt her eyes on him, so he met her stare. “He wants you. It’s clear his feelings run deep. It’s also clear you have feelings for him.”
She nodded.
She didn’t even deny it, so now, he couldn’t pretend she didn’t have feelings for that guy. His stomach hollowed out, an ache sliced through him. He looked to his plate and clenched his jaw to keep the pain at bay.
A part of him didn’t want to know. Another part of him needed to know. “What’s so complicated about that?”
She sighed. “He was my first ‘real’ boyfriend. We met at UCLA late freshman year and dated for almost two years. He’s a good man, kind, loyal, sweet. My parents love him, and I know he loves me.”
The muscle in his jaw twitched, his fingers around the fork and knife tightening.
“It’s complicated because I don’t love him the way he loves me.”
What the hell did that mean? Did she love him or didn’t she? Bile rose in the back of his throat. Still, he forced himself to speak. “Either you love him or you don’t.”
“There are different ways to love. You can love a person and not be in love with them…” Shaking her head softly with a faraway look in her eyes, she whispered, “You feel they love you in a way you don’t and never will. If you love them enough, you know the right thing to do is let them go, so they can find someone who loves them like they love you.”
So deep. She was right and proved once again she was better than him. It also proved her ex was an idiot. If Cuss ever had her, he’d never let her go, never let her leave even if he knew he loved her more.
“So you broke it off ’cause you knew he loved you more, and he let you.”
That faraway look, faded. Her brows drew together. “No—”
“It’s true. He let you let him go.”
Her eyes widened. “What was he supposed to do? Tie me to a bed? Handcuff me to him?”
Worked for him.
Her hand went to her chest. “He loves me enough to want me to be happy, loves me enough to want me to find someone I can love the way he loves me.”
He shook his head. “He loves you so much he could’ve loved for the both of you.”
Her gaze narrowed. “Maybe that would’ve worked for a year or two or maybe five, but deep down, he’d know I’d never feel for him the way he feels about me. He’d know nothing could change it. In the end, he would’ve resented me, and I would’ve resented him for not letting me go.”
He shook his head. “He loved you enough he would never resent you ’cause he had you.”
She placed her elbows on the table and leaned onto them. Now, looking pissed, brows drawn, eyes narrowed and still, her voice remained level. “What do you know? Have you ever been in a relationship, a real one? One-night stands and casual sex don’t count.”
She made a good point. He’d never been in a relationship because the girl he wanted he couldn’t have. But he knew himself well enough to know if he had a chance, he’d do anything to keep her.
“I get the girl I want, I’d do whatever it takes to keep her.”
She waited a long moment before she spoke again. Her temper melted away by then. Her voice soft, when she said, “There’s only so much you can do. Trust me. Mark did it all, but he does love me. I know it because I feel it. Everything he did showed me how much, and whether you believe it or not, you love someone, you let them go. You want their happiness above your own.”
Shit. She idolized the man, loved him enough to get angry because Cuss believed differently, loved him enough to defend him. Maybe she’d convinced herself she didn’t love her ex the way he loved her, but she made it clear she wanted to.
Knowing that, killed.
He didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say. Even if there had been, he doubted he would’ve managed it. His stomach in knots, the delicious steak and mashed potatoes he’d eaten rose to the back of his throat. And his chest, it burned.
Luckily, she changed the subject. That sad look in her eyes faded. They talked, but they didn’t really say anything at all.
****
The last three days had been tough. Tiffany had two finals Tuesday, one Wednesday, and another that day. While she wasn’t concerned about passing, (she’d been studying for weeks) exams, especially finals, got her antsy. The only way she put those nerves to rest—working out. She couldn’t though. She needed to study for her last final tomorrow. The gym would have to wait. Still, her nerves were shattered and living with Thomas made it worse.
He had not lied when he said he was messy. She supposed she should’ve known considering she’d been in his apartment once but still. He was really messy. He showered twice a day, and every time he showered, he left his clothes and towel on the bathroom floor. He didn’t pile it in a corner. No, he scattered it so she couldn’t see the floor. Apparently, it never occurred to him to hang his towel so it’d dry. He shaved every morning in front of the mirror instead of in the shower then brushed his teeth. A neat freak, imagine her horror walking into the guest bathroom Monday night and finding three pairs of boxers, three towels, jeans, socks, and shirts strewn around the floor, the sink littered with facial hair, and soap scum on the faucet and mirror.
She did what any neat freak who wanted to keep her sanity did. She dumped his clothes in the washing machine, ran a load, and cleaned the bathroom then began dinner. He’d been sitting on the couch watching some car show the entire time, so she didn’t touch the mess he left there, primarily the bags of new clothes littering the floor. They ate dinner at the table, talked for a while, and she finally got a chance to sit and study some. An hour in, she remembered the load of laundry. She folded it and set it on the couch.
He spared a glance at her then did a double take. His eyes widened. “You did my laundry?”
Who else would do it, if she didn’t? “Yes.”
His gaze softened. He stood from the couch, closed the distance between them, wrapped his arms around her, and pressed his lips to her forehead. “Thanks, baby girl.”
That made it hard to care he was messy, hard to remind herself she should be studying instead of cleaning up after a grown man, and she had to remind herself. She couldn’t focus on the fact she didn’t mind doing his laundry and making him dinner.
As much as she appreciated Thomas showing his gratitude with a simple hug and a “thank you,” she wished he didn’t. She wished he would be an asshole again. When he was sweet, it was too easy to get lost in a self-created fantasy they were together.
The hardest part about living with Thomas, living with Thomas, especially since he quit wearing shirts around her apartment. She tried not to look, but her mind drifted. Then her gaze followed. He caught her several times, meaning she’d set the world record for how many times a person could blush. She wished he’d put on a damned shirt. It made it impossible to concentrate. She knew she should tell him to, but he was so sculpted and so nice to look at, she couldn’t force the words out of her mouth. Besides, telling him would imply it bothered her. The only other option—heading into her room. Her upcoming finals gave her a good excuse. Even then, every couple of hours or so, he peered into her room bare-chested.
In hopes of avoiding looking at the full beauty of him, after her fourth final, she decided she needed to study at the library, but even sitting in the library with her face stuck in a textbook attempting to study, she could picture his chest and back from memory, tattoos and all.
Stuck in that image, she didn’t notice when Donna and Marianne neared until they took seats across from her.
“See Thomas is nearby.” Marianne’s gaze snapped to Thomas, sitting on a couch thirty feet away, magazine on his lap, riffling through it.
She sighed. “Yeah.”
Marianne reached into her bag, grabbed a textbook, and set it on the table. “Is he still doing the kiss on the forehead thing?”
“You mean treating me like his kid sister? Yes. And before you ask, yes, he’s still calling me ‘baby girl.’ He knows I don’t like it. Further proving he thinks I’m his kid sister, finding ways to pester me. Luckily, he hasn’t called me ‘cute’ again.”
Donna pulled a heavy textbook and folder from her bag. “I think the kiss on the forehead is sweet.”
She quirked a brow, thinking finals had gotten to Donna.
“It’s a form of endearment.”
She knew, but not the kind she wanted, and it frustrated her. “Yes, but it’s the type of kiss a guy gives his sister or cousin. It’s showing me what I already know. He sees me like a kid.”
Donna shook her head. “No way. I think it means more.”
God bless her heart. Donna, a hopeless romantic, spent most of her free time watching chick flicks and reading romance novels, not that Tiffany didn’t enjoy a romance novel or a chick flick every now and then, but Donna believed romances like that existed. She didn’t.
“Don’t know about that.” Marianne expelled a breath. “What I do know is that when a man wants a woman, he makes it known, and he attempts to make it happen. He doesn’t wait around for seven years.”
Technically, it’d been more than seven years, but Tiffany didn’t say this.
“Maybe it’s because he knew she was going away or—”
Marianne shook her head. “Don’t be that girl.”
Donna frowned. “What girl?”
“The girl who makes shit up to make her friend feel better.”
“I’m not making things up.” Donna’s gaze hit hers. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you. He’s always trying to find a way to touch you, and when he talks to you, he leans in real close. It’s like he’s claiming you or something.”
Nope. Just Thomas, an alpha male, a biker, when he wanted to make a point, he did things to get her attention.
Marianne quirked a brow. “Seven years.”
Donna looked at Marianne then back at her. “Maybe something’s changed or maybe—”
“Seven years.”
Her elbow on the table, Tiffany drew her hand through her hair. “Don’t worry. I’m not getting my hopes up. I’m a realist, or at least, I try to be. If nothing’s happened between us in the last seven years, nothing ever will.”
Their gazes softened. She read pity in them and couldn’t blame them. She’d been pining for a man for years, a man who didn’t see her as a woman, just a girl.
“The hardest part about this is being so close to him but not close enough. It’s only for eight more days. Then I’ll be home, and I’ll start dating again.”
Tiffany didn’t think she’d ever meet a man she felt for as deeply as she did for Thomas. Getting to know Thomas now, on a different, deeper level, would make it much harder because she’d learned he was sweet, affectionate, and good to her, but she had to try. She couldn’t spend her life thinking and dreaming about a man who’d never see her as more than a girl he’d saved, three times.
She needed to forget him.
For good.