EIGHT
Brinley
It was the longest four weeks of my life.
Dramatic? Probably.
But also incredibly accurate.
We didn't talk about it.
In fact, we barely talked at all outside of situations where we had to. Meaning on the work sites. And in front of the cameras. We got our frozen, soulless smiles on, and we put on a good show. I did little interviews about how much fun we were having which coincided with the playful fights on the set, the eye-rolls with sweet smiles like we were frustrated with each other, but lovingly.
The fights got worse though.
It was like our first job together all over again. But our close quarters full of long silences and eye-contact avoidance only fueled the fires, added malice to the words which - I always realized in hindsight when it was too late - really didn't belong there.
It was weighing on me too.
I couldn't say anything for Warren.
Because he did absolutely everything within his power to avoid speaking to me.
He was still sleeping on the couch every night. When I'd walk down in the morning, he would still be moving around slowly, aching as an eighty-year-old from the hard surface, but refusing to come back up to share the bed, to be a grown up, to just move on from it all.
And me, well, maybe I should have invited him back up to the bedroom. And I likely shouldn't have been wickedly pleased by watching him grunt and groan around painfully for an hour or so before his body finally loosened up.
But, well, I was... ugh, I didn't even want to think the word. That one that said exactly how affected I was, how weak I was, how much this was still weighing on me. A month later. Like a school girl.
There was no denying it though.
I was hurt.
Hurt.
By this guy.
By his flippant rejection of me after forcing a kiss on me.
And I was so alone here, more alone than I had ever felt in my life before. Even cohabitating with someone. The walls were empty, the space in between quiet, allowing my brain to do nothing but scream ever-louder.
What it had to say? Yeah, not nice things.
"I'm going home this weekend," I told him as I passed by, voice low enough that the guys painting the bedroom five feet away couldn't hear me.
"What?" he asked, actually turning his attention to me, a rarity considering there was no camera around to catch it.
"I. Am. Going. Home. This. Weekend."
"I was planning on staying here. Get more work done."
Of course he was. Somehow, we had also flipped roles. He was now some frantic workaholic while I did what was required - and still did it well - but nothing more. Most nights, I walked myself home just a few minutes after the crew left, doing any extra projects I wanted to back at the house. Alone. Away from him. While he stayed at the house until well after dark. Away from me.
"Well, I didn't invite you anyway," I said, shaking my head.
"Think you actually need my invitation to go back to my house, Brin."
Ugh.
I hated that tone.
That cocky, condescending one, the one that lacked any of the softness he had used with me before the kiss, something I had maybe started to get used to.
Jerk, I thought, not for the first time that day. Or even the tenth.
"I wasn't going back to your house. I am going to visit my family. And Brent."
"Brent?" he asked, brows drawing together, voice having an edge I couldn't quite place, and, quite frankly, didn't want to. I was done with that. Trying to analyze him, trying to understand why he did or said the things he did, trying to figure out how to get along with him. At least in our free time. "And how are you going to get there? We took my truck."
"I'll find a way." I didn't care if I had to dip into my savings to Uber my way back. I just needed to go. The entire town felt like it was closing in on me. Which was silly considering the season was over, the beaches were empty, many of the stores and restaurants shuttered for the off-season. It was practically a ghost town in comparison to how it had been just a week before.
"What..." he started, but I was already walking away.
I left before him as I always did, packing a single bag, then calling for an Uber, knowing it would make their afternoon to get a long ride like this, and for maybe the first time ever, genuinely not caring about how much it would cost, how frivolous it was, what the money could be better spent on. I would, after all, be coming out of this situation with more money than I came in with. While not having to pay any bills. I would be fine. And this splurge was to save my sanity. You couldn't really put a price on that.
Though you could put a fare on it.
Two-hundred-twenty-five plus tip.
But it was worth it as we pulled out front of Brent's house, both familiar and odd to my eyes after such a long stretch.
I hadn't called.
I guess I probably should have.
Because Brent had company.
And he didn't lock the door.
And when I say he had company, I meant of the female persuasion.
And the reason I mentioned the unlocked door?
Yeah, that was because they were having naked fun time on the couch.
"Jesus Christ," Brent growled, grabbing the woman who had been riding him, and dragging her against his chest, shielding both their bodies even as I whipped around.
"I'm sorry. So so sorry. Okay. I'm leaving. Ah, carry on..." I mumbled, moving out the door with my heart slamming in my chest.
It seemed that Brent was enjoying his freedom.
That sent a swirling, uncomfortable feeling through my belly before I tamped it down, shook my head, tried to shake off the negatively clinging to me.
He should be enjoying his freedom.
He should be screwing people on every surface of his house with no fear of being found out.
It was just becoming ever clearer that I didn't belong here anymore.
Reaching for my purse, I dug around for my cell, finding my sister's number, waiting until it almost went to the machine before she answered, sounding out of breath.
"Brin, is everything okay?" she greeted.
"I, ah, yeah. Everything is okay," I said, but it suddenly felt like a lie.
"Okay. Well, I am at lamaze class. And then I have a birthday party for Abby. Can I call you back tomorrow?"
So there went that option too.
"Yeah, sure. No worries. Give the kids a kiss for me," I demanded, feeling some hopelessness start to settle deep.
Hanging up with her, I tried my parents, getting the machine, then a text back a moment later telling me they were visiting my brother, his wife, and their new baby for the weekend.
Never, never had I felt quite so alone as I did when I called yet another Uber, this time to take me to Warren's house, so I could grab my car, unsure where or what I was going to go or do.
Feeling lost, I climbed inside my car, rolling down the manual windows to let out the stagnant, stifling air, lowered my chair back so I could go flat, curled on my side.
And did it.
Cried.
I wasn't, in general, a big crier.
It took a lot for me to get to that point, where I felt like I had to purge it. Maybe because I emoted a lot in general. I wasn't one to bottle things. I let it all out, so it didn't fester.
But, I guess, I had been holding things in more lately. I hadn't let my family or friends in on what had been going on with Warren, hadn't been able to talk about it with him to get it settled, so it wasn't weighing on me.
I felt heavy.
And, I guess, I was as full as I could get.
I needed to empty out.
That was what I did, in the privacy of my car in Warren's quiet driveway. Until my face felt raw and my eyes were so swollen that they felt half-closed.
It was pitch black outside when I finally pulled my seat back upright, swiping at my tear-stained cheeks, then grabbing my purse, deciding that if I was here, I might as well check on things, maybe get a drink, use the bathroom, and grab a cup of coffee before I hit the road again.
To where?
That was a good question.
I had no idea.
I guess I could squat at my parents' place while they were out of town, wait for my sister and Brent to have some time for me.
I would feel refreshed then, ready to take on the next few weeks. This was what I needed.
Grabbing the key Warren had given me when I had fake moved in what felt like a lifetime before, I made my way in, checking to be sure that his mail was still being held, flicking on the exterior lights.
His house was eerily quiet, making me oddly act on the impulse to flip on his stereo. And not change the station.
I would never admit this aloud, but I actually kind of missed his country music. We weren't allowed to play any music on the set because of copyright laws and such, so we mostly worked in silence.
I had oddly gotten used to the deep voices of the male singers he preferred, the slow songs, the depth of feeling in the love songs. I had oddly started to find comfort in it.
And comfort was what I needed right then as I moved around making coffee, having to make do without cream because he had cleared out his fridge - of course - before we had moved out. I loaded it up with sugar and some chocolate syrup I found in his cabinet, then went to the bathroom for a quick shower.
Sure, I should have called him and told him I was here.
Actually, I should have asked.
He had even told me so.
But I was just staying for an hour or so.
I would tell him when I got back.
When it was too late for him to blow a gasket about it.
I hadn't meant to fall asleep.
I think my puffy eyes and slight crying-hangover headache had worn me out. I had just meant to sit down on the couch to finish my coffee.
But I must have curled up on the sofa at some point.
"Brinley."
The voice was soft, coaxing, trying to drag me out of a dream about being trapped under a pile of throw pillows.
Familiar, but my mostly unconscious brain couldn't place it, didn't want to follow its instructions.
"Baby, wake up."
That sounded sweet, my brain decided, reaching for consciousness, liking the soft way the voice was trying to get my attention, my body feeling warm and light and happy.
"Brin."
This time, the voice was a little firmer, making me finally lose the dreamy in-between, startling awake with a jolt, eyes shooting open, heart starting to pound as I looked almost frantically around, trying to make sense of my surroundings.
"Relax," Warren said, voice softer than it had been in weeks.
"Wh..."
"You're at my place. You passed out on the couch," he explained calmly, his dark eyes watching me, seeming to see through me. It had been so long since his focus was genuinely on me that it was off-putting, making me immediately wonder about the state of my hair that I had fallen asleep on while it was still wet.
I pushed myself upward, feet planting on the floor, hands on my knees, suddenly acutely aware of how close he was from where he was perched on the coffee table.
"Why are you here?" I managed to ask, knowing he was staying behind to catch up on work.
"Your phone is dead," he informed me, making my eyes shoot to my purse, figuring that made sense. It was old. It went dead just from me checking the time.
"Oh. Did something happen?" I asked, reaching up to rub at my eyes that felt bone dry.
"You could say that," he told me cryptically. "Were you crying?" he asked, making me jolt backward, feeling oddly caught. "And don't lie," he warned me.
Warned.
Like he had any right to do so.
"You barely speak to me for weeks, and you want to know personal details about me? No, that isn't how this works," I told him, keeping my tone calm, knowing he had a tendency to win when I got too angry. "What could have happened to make you drive all the way up here instead of waiting for me to charge my phone?"
God, what time was it even? The sun was streaming through the shades. But it was impossible to tell if it had just risen, or had been up for hours.
"I'm assuming you haven't been online."
"I've been sleeping."
"Rachel, Mica, and Andy are having a fucking conniption."
"What happened?" I asked, suddenly alert, body stiff, heart starting to pound.
Were we found out?
God, anything but that.
"Apparently, the crew has been talking," he told me as he fished for his phone, flicking and clicking through it for a second before handing it to me.
And there was the cover to some cheesy tabloid. There were pictures of us, one from the promo we had been photographed for, a dramatic photoshopped split down the center; the other two that were taken in other points of time. Mine was a picture from my Instagram, the craft I had been working on cropped out, one that had refused to go right, so I had been scowling at it. But, of course, they had it, so it looked like I was scowling at Warren whose picture was a somewhat blank-faced one, unreadable.
Then right there in bright yellow block letters, the headline.
Fix It Uppers Break It Off?
"Oh, God," I groaned, looking up at him, feeling my pulse start to throb in my temples.
"It gets worse," he told me, tone a little guarded. "You can flip through to the article.
"'Don't you know that they're toxic?'" I read aloud, groaning. Really? A Britney reference? I mean, not that you could expect clever journalism from a rag mag, but that was just lazy.
Things are not as they seem in the smiling promo pictures for Home Improvement Television's new season of their hit - though wrought with scandal - show Fix It Up.
According to sources on set, show frontrunners Warren Reyes - the contractor - and his wife Brinley Spears - an interior decorator - can barely get through a conversation without erupting into screaming matches.
"Screaming matches, my ass," I snapped, looking up for confirmation that he was as outraged as I was.
"It's not exactly The New York Times," he said with a shrug. "They sell more copies if they exaggerate the truth."
"Who would snitch on us?" I asked, suddenly offended. These were people we worked beside, sweated with, broke bread with, laughed with, brought coffee in for in the mornings.
Betrayal wasn't something I could claim to be familiar with, always having been lucky enough to have family and friends who always had my back, who would never talk about me behind it to strangers.
Maybe it was silly to feel so now seeing as we didn't really know these people per se.
"I won't be able to look at anyone the same again," I admitted, not bothering to read the rest of the article after I caught some snarky line about how we must have married based on our supposed 'explosive sexual chemistry' instead of actual compatibility. I imagined it only went downhill from there.
"They weren't exactly lying, though, were they?" he asked, making my stomach drop a bit.
"What are Rachel, Mica, and Andy saying?"
"Well, Rachel is saying that Andy is freaking out about his investment, about how they should have gone with the couple with the kids because viewers like when they make guest appearances."
Andy was a hothead and a worrywart.
I wasn't worried about him as much per se.
"Is Rachel mad?"
Warren did a shrug and headshake all at once, a combination I was instantly wary of. "She's... concerned. She brought us in. The weight of this is falling on her. She wanted to know if it was the stress of the show that was making us fight, if we were okay."
"What did you say?" I asked, feeling guilty for not having been accessible, even though maybe Warren had been the better person to handle it since he was much more adept at staying calm in tense situations.
"I said we have always butted heads, that all couples who work together get on each other's nerves, that we were fine, just had very different styles on the job."
"Did she buy it?"
He looked toward the front window at that, lips curved up enough that I could see the bright outline of his teeth. "She, ah, implied something about fighting and making up," he said, making me smile too. Not because of her comment, but because he almost seemed a little embarrassed by it. Warren, embarrassed. It was novel.
"So... what are we supposed to do?"
"You know how we have the interview on Tuesday?" he asked, making me let out a grumble about the early morning spot on a talk show. Which I mostly objected to because it meant we would have to get up at four AM to get there on time.
"How could I forget?" I whined, making his gaze move back to me, the smile slipping a bit to hide his teeth, but not disappearing.
"She wants us to go up to the city tonight or tomorrow. And 'get seen' out on the town. Being in love. Happy. Let it imply that it is just the work that makes us bite each other's heads off."
That was, well, doable.
We'd have to work on it, given how tense things had been with us personally, but we could make it work. He had to make it work.
"And she wants you to take over control of the social media for the show, post behind-the-scenes things, and pictures of us at home, being a couple. Get more personal. She said that social media is where you really shine."
It was the first time I had heard a word of praise in weeks. I was almost embarrassed to admit just how much that affected me that she thought that, and that she would trust me with the official pages for the show.
"I can do that," I agreed, nodding, finding a soul-deep kind of determination to get it perfect, to prove to her that she was right to put her faith to rest in me.
"I am supposed to get back to her as soon as I got in touch with you, so she can get us some reservations in the city. And, though she didn't say this, I am figuring, tipping off the rival rag to this one," he said, waving at his phone that was still in my hand, "that we will be there, so they can catch pictures of us happily together."
"And since this one has no pictures or proof of us arguing," I concluded, "the newer one would be seen as the more accurate."
"Yep."
"Where did you tell Rachel I was?" I asked, stomach dropping a little. That didn't look good, did it? This article dropped when I was nowhere to be found, couldn't be gotten in touch with?
"I told her your sister was pregnant, that you were coming up to help your mom plan a baby shower."
"And since that is a woman's thing, of course you hung back to do some work."
"Exactly."
"You think fast," I told him, impressed.
"You want to head up today? Saturday night."
"Date night," I agreed, nodding. "What time is it now?"
"A little after nine. Got time to get some food before heading in."
"Rachel will handle the hotel room?" I asked, finding that I liked having someone to handle those things. Having always been a bit of a control freak, I never thought I could find comfort in having someone else make decisions for me. But Rachel had picked out the townhouse. And she always had the best choices for set meals. It was nice for a change not to have to think so much, micromanage every little thing, do it all myself.
"Yeah. She just needed the confirmation. I will call her. Go charge up your phone, get some coffee. Then we can hit the road."
With that, he got up, taking his phone to go out front to make the call. I jumped up to go get myself presentable, make coffee for us both, charge my phone, and then take myself back into the bathroom to hold a plastic baggie full of ice to my eyelids, trying to take down the puffiness.
"Why were you crying, Brin?" Warren's voice asked, soft, but unexpected, making me jolt, the baggie falling off my face, slapping down into the sink as my gaze went to the mirror, finding him reflected there.
Standing in the doorway, his arm was cocked up on the jam, head slightly ducked, dark eyes boring into me.
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters," he countered.
If there was one thing I knew, it was that while I was stubborn, he was equally so. In fact, in many situations, he could out-stubborn me.
My mouth felt oddly flooded with saliva, like my body was trying to drown out the words. I swallowed, though, and forced them out.
"I was lonely," I admitted.
"You were lonely?"
"I can go through a whole day hardly speaking a handful of words to people anymore," I explained. "So, I came home to spend some time with my friends and family. And everyone was too busy for me. It was just... overwhelming," I concluded, unable to make eye-contact, even through the mirror.
"Not used to being alone," he murmured, making my gaze finally lift to see him watching me.
"No, I'm not," I agreed. It had been incredibly isolating to move away from everyone, to know their lives were moving on without me, while mine stayed oddly stagnant. It was the calm before the storm for me, I knew, but that didn't change the day-to-day drudgery.
"I've been a shit roommate," he surprised me by admitting. "Don't remember the last time I even said good morning to you."
"Well, in your defense," I said, lips twitching, "you were too busy creaking like an old man to say much of anything."
"It was nice to sleep in a bed," he admitted, smiling a little, making me feel guilty. Like maybe he had been waiting for the invite after all. "First time in weeks my back wasn't hurting," he added. "Did you bring enough stuff to hold you over for a few days, or do you need to stop by your old place."
"Depends."
"On?"
"How fancy is this place Rachel is getting us reservations for? Keep in mind that anything that requires footwear other than flip-flops is fancy in my book."
He smirked at that. "Then fancy."
"Ugh," I grumbled, not excited about the idea of having to drag out a little black dress. "Alright. Well, do you want to go pick up food while I grab some more clothes? We can meet back here, eat, then head out."
"Sounds like a plan," he agreed, moving away.
So that was what we did.
When I got back to Brent's, he and his lady were long gone. I had six text messages from him I had yet to check, finding that every time I thought of answering him, I got an image of him and his girl in my head, making my cheeks heat up. It was silly, sure. We were adults. We had sex. We'd even had sex while the other was in the house. But it was always somewhat subtle. A squeak of the bed or a moan that the radio or TV didn't quite cover. We talked about sex. Joked about it.
I guess it was a whole different monster, though, to see a brother figure playing hide the hotdog with a very beautiful woman in the living room where you spent many late nights watching old Friends reruns while eating Chinese right from the cartons.
I packed some clothes reserved for special occasions, heels, some more makeup, and a few refresher items for my wardrobe to bring back to Cape May with me after this was all done since the weather would likely be turning soon. I would have to swap out everything pretty soon, but since almost all of my bags were still in the townhouse, I would have to make a trip up again in the near future to get all my fall and winter clothes.
Warren was already back when I got to his house, transferring my bags into his truck, having a quick, awkwardly silent meal, then hitting the road.
We were twenty minutes in, and my belly was doing a weird swirling thing at the idea that we were going to have nothing but more silence on the drive, when he finally spoke.
"You didn't change the station."
"I'm sorry?" I asked, turning to watch his profile, pretending - at least outwardly - that my mind didn't have a tendency to drag out the memories of the kiss whenever I looked at him - at the hard press of his lips, the rough grip of his fingers, the burn of his stubble on my skin, the feel of his hardness pressing into me. Even just thinking of it sent a flush over my body, made my sex clench hard, wanting more of it, wanting everything he had to offer.
"At my place. You turned the radio on. And didn't turn the station."
Oh.
Right.
And how was I supposed to respond to that?
I don't know why, but the music makes me think of you, and despite all the tension the past several weeks, I still somehow find that comforting?
Yeah, no.
That wasn't going to work.
"I've learned to like some of the songs," I said instead, it being true.
"Such as?" he asked, seeming genuinely interested. I guess because I had railed so hard against the genre for so long.
"There's one slow one, and a guy says something about damnation and crying to his grave."
"'Fire Away,'" he supplied, glancing over at me. "Chris Stapleton," he added. "That's an interesting one to choose."
"Don't dig too deep," I said, shrugging. "I just like the sound of it."
Except it wasn't just the sound; it was the lyrics, and the depth of emotion the singer put into them. I don't know, it spoke to me in a way. But that sounded silly, especially because I wasn't in love with anyone. But, yeah, it gave me shivers. Goosebumps rose up on my arms when I heard those first few strums of the guitar.
"I'll make a country fan of you yet," he declared, sounding light, almost joyful, and it was such a contrast to the Warren I had been living with for months now that I found myself studying his face as he drove.
"I wouldn't go that far. For every one of those soulful songs, there is one that talks about bare feet and cut-off jeans and objectifies women as badly - or even worse in some cases - as many rap songs."
He said nothing, but smiled as he reached inside his center console, producing an iPod. "Find a song called 'Girl In A Country Song' on there, and play it," he demanded, fingers brushing mine as he handed it over. It was accidental, of course. Chaste as well. But my skin seemed to spark at the contact, making me almost drop the damn thing before I set to doing as he demanded, grabbing the AUX he handed me, and plugging in the iPod, listening to two girls complaining of exactly what I had just complained about. "The industry saw the problem after this one dropped. It's gotten a little better lately."
"I miss having music on the worksite," I told him as he switched back to the radio when the song finished. "I guess that's why some of the guys sneak in iPods under their shirts." It was against the rules, of course. The cords were dangerous, and they couldn't hear it if someone yelled out a warning. Which was why a low playing radio was usually used.
"We're moving onto the third house soon," he told me, as though I wasn't aware. The schedule was weird. We moved on before we were finished. And then I was expected to go back to put all the finishing design touches when the crews finally finished, Warren showing up to help even though that wasn't what he did ever.
"Thirteen after that one."
"We'll get used to it."
It was the first time I had heard anything even close to a complaint from him about the job. I found it refreshing. I was starting to feel ungrateful with not being completely happy with the process. This was the chance of a lifetime, after all. But that didn't mean it was all sunshine and roses either.
"You don't like leaving the project unfinished," I half asked, half declared.
"No," he agreed. "I have no idea what these guys are doing, if they are following instructions exactly, or improvising. It's frustrating. My name is on these projects."
"I get that," I agreed, nodding. No one else was doing my job for me. I couldn't imagine having to give up that much control over a project. He was handling it better than I would. Sure, he went over after hours to work, tweak, check things. But I would probably be obsessively stopping over, rearranging, reorganizing, grumbling about candlesticks being on the wrong end of the sideboard.
"At least we get to do something a little different this time."
He was right.
The last two homes had been abandoned, too damaged to be worth fixing up, on land not desirable enough for the slimy developers to come in and steal them up. The next one would be different because the property was owned. In fact, it was owned by a couple in their mid-thirties who had bought it on a song - because of the obvious damage - and had set their minds to trying to fix it up themselves. Snag after snag made them all but give up when they were approached by Rachel's team about allowing us to do it for them.
"We have a budget," I reminded him. That was new for us too. While Andy did control the pursestrings, he generally didn't quibble about things that we found necessary. I guess he figured that whatever we put in, he would get back two-fold if he sold, or even if he used it as a rental property. This time, we only had what the owners had in their savings to work with. Not a penny more. Forty-thousand. For who-knew-what work. We'd seen a picture of the outside, but had no idea what was within.
"I can work on a budget," he told me, nodding. "Most of my jobs come with a cap. I'm used to making do. Hopefully, the foundation is sound, and the electrical and HVAC aren't too old or damaged. Those are the cash-eaters."
"Yeah. And I actually have a lot of pieces stored in my parents' garage. Tables, chairs that I could reupholster for just the cost of the fabric and some batting - which is minimal, and some basic wall art pieces, frames, just a mismatch of a ton of things I got from great antique shops and flea markets. That should help keep costs low. Paint, lighting, and accents shouldn't be too bad. We'll make it work. So long as they don't have designer tastes on bargain budgets."
"Rachel seems to think they are reasonable. If they were willing to try to do the work themselves, I doubt they are the kind of people who drool over thousand-dollar sofas. I was thinking of suggesting they work with us," he went on, chancing a look at me when he stopped at a light.
"I think that's a good idea," I agreed, surprised the producers hadn't thought of it. "But just on the beginning stages. Demo and maybe some landscaping. So we can have a big reveal at the end."
"Exactly," he agreed, giving me a small smile.
"Did you mention this to Rachel?"
He shook his head. "I wanted to run it by you first."
"Thank you," I said, meaning it, liking that he didn't go behind my back. Like he would have any other time.
"What kind of restaurant do we have reservations to?"
"The Grill. It is some kind of steakhouse. She wanted to do some French place called Daniel, but I reminded her we aren't fine French dining kind of people."
"Thank God for that," I said, grimacing.
"Not into getting all cleaned up?"
I shrugged a shoulder. "It's been a long time. I guess it is nice every once in a while, but I am more of a jeans and flip-flops and taco takeout kind of girl."
"Really into the tacos, huh?"
"Well, I have tastebuds, so... yeah."
"Your tacos were amazing," he told me, making a rush of pride move through me. "I think I forgot to tell you that."
"Yes. You were busy avoiding me."
There.
I said it.
It had to be said.
I didn't want to ruin what was a pleasant moment, but it was just going to keep eating me up if I didn't get it out, didn't address it.
"Yeah," he agreed, mouth barely opening, so the sound came out clipped, almost growling. "We've never excelled at the talking thing," he added after a moment. "The bickering? The snapping at each other? Yeah, we do that great. But the talking, just two people rationally hashing something out? We haven't been good at that."
"No," I agreed, nodding. "We haven't been good at that. But maybe if we tried it a little more, we could learn to be. We owe it to ourselves - and each other, since we are in this together - to give it a try. It will be a long year if we don't at least try to get along."
"So, we'll try," he agreed.
The silence fell again, but this time, it wasn't so uncomfortable. The music hummed, slow and steady, just like I liked it. New Jersey faded away into New York City faster than I would have liked, finding more ease in that hour and a half than I had in weeks.
"The hotel won't let us check in for a few more hours. Any ideas on how to spend the time?"
"You really shouldn't let me choose," I warned him. "I imagine they have dozens of antique shops."
"Yeah, no. You're not choosing," he informed me with a laugh, driving around with the ease of someone who had clearly been in the city many times before.
"How do you know your way around?" I asked as he found the hotel, giving the keys to the valet to handle for us. Even though we couldn't check in for a while yet, he took our bags inside to hold for us, so we could hit the streets to waste some time.
"I had a job here a few years back."
"What kind?"
"Penthouse. He was OCD. Made me gut the place, and redo it from scratch. We had to wear gloves and masks. He didn't want anyone else physically touching any of his surfaces but him. Took almost seven months. I got used to getting around. You spend any time here?"
"A couple hours here and there for concerts or shows. But I pretty much just went from the train station to the venue. I haven't been able to see much. Where are we going?"
"To see things," he told me simply, shrugging.
Then we did.
We walked down some streets, checking out hotspot tourist attractions. I remembered last minute to grab my phone, and squeeze in close to Warren to take selfies to share to the Instagram account as soon as I had access.
"Hey, don't," I objected when I finally talked him into going with me to some kitschy craft store where he pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of me while I flipped through funky fabrics that I had never seen anywhere else - succulents on a hot pink background, mermaids drinking frozen coffees, multicolored pastel macarons.
"Why not?" he asked, looking down at the picture.
"Because I wasn't ready," I insisted, knowing that ninety-percent of the time, people took the absolutely most unflattering pictures of you possible. Was it so hard to lift your hands up, and angle the camera down? Then again, Warren was about a foot or so taller than me, so I guess any picture he took would be at a downward angle.
"That's the point," he told me. "It will look candid because it was. And you look great," he told me, turning his phone to show me the picture that, admittedly, was pretty flattering.
"Alright, fine. Send that to me," I told him as I put the fabric back. Cute and kitschy in the city meant a mini future. And I had spent enough money this weekend already. "Can we double back to the soft pretzel cart?" I asked, belly grumbling. "There's no way I am making it to seven."
We had pretzels. Then kabobs. And soft serve dipped in unicorn colors which was, of course, more selfie-worthy goodness.
"We can hit the hotel now," Warren told me as we just kept destination-less walking. "Check in. Maybe get a shower. Or a nap. You can do whatever chicks do to get ready for a night out."
"Whatever chicks do to get ready for a night out," I repeated with a snort. "I mean, it's really not that complicated. Three hours of makeup, some tugging and plucking... a blood sacrifice to the beauty gods..."
"Sounds about right," he agreed as he put a hand at my lower back, trying to guide me to the side. It was a nothing contact. But my skin seemed to sizzle. As if maybe it wasn't just me feeling it, his hand snatched away as quickly as it touched me. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on my part.
Wishful thinking?
No.
That wasn't possible.
I didn't wish for him to want me.
That would be irrational.
We barely got along.
I mean, we currently were.
But this was a rarity.
Normally, we were at each other's throats.
And it would be idiotic to want a man to feel sparks when they touch you when you could barely tolerate them most of the time.
But that was perhaps being too rational.
There really wasn't anything rational about attraction, was there? It was all chemicals, all random firings in the brain.
It was why you sometimes feel nothing for the uber hot guy from the gym, but got all hot and bothered over the odd, only moderately attractive guy with unkempt hair and glasses from the coffeeshop.
It was just an animal impulse.
Something primitive, encoded in the DNA.
My body wanted his, whether that made sense or not.
But just because my body wanted it didn't mean I wanted it.
Right?
"Wow," I exhaled as we moved into the lobby of the hotel, having been spaced out for multiple blocks.
"She said you would like it," he agreed, stopping beside me as I took it in.
"Just me?" I asked, eyes moving over the cedar-wrapped beams across the ceiling, the matching gleaming hardwood floors, things that were perfectly up his alley. As was the giant seamless check-in desk with shiplap walls behind. The rest was me though with the cream couches but light blue accent chairs, the textured walls in an off-white, the giant and unique mason jar chandelier.
"Us. She said we would both love it."
"She gets us," I agreed, suddenly feeling his gaze on me, making me turn to find him watching me, dark eyes almost penetrative.
"She does," he agreed with a nod, tone somewhat guarded. "You ready to check in, or do you need to go and eye-fuck the carpet too?" he asked, jerking his chin toward a seating area at the side that did have an amazing carpet.
"We can check in," I said, looking forward, not liking his tone, but not disliking it enough to say anything about it.
Then we did, getting our keycards, being trailed by a bellman who insisted on carrying our bags into the elevator, down the hall, then to our room.
The room spoke more to Warren's style than mine, brown and tan carpet, brown curtains, brown loveseat, brown accent wall behind the bed, white sheets, and a brown runner across the bed.
"Check out the bathroom," Warren said, having moved in ahead of me. "More your speed."
I glanced inward, finding walls that were this odd in-between brown and purple shade that I had never seen before, had no name for, but was instantly in love with. There was a floating white vanity, a deep white soaking tub, and an all-glass shower enclosure. Propped up against an empty wall was a ladder bookshelf with brown wood and white shelves, overflowing with rolled fluffy towels.
Maybe I could indulge in a bath.
It would certainly calm me down, get me in the mood to get all dolled up to go out on the town.
"Got a balcony too," Warren called, making me move back out, finding him looking out the sliding door outside.
It was then I realized something else.
One bed.
Sure, we had slept in the same bed before.
But it somehow felt different now.
Because of the kiss, sure.
Because of the confusing period of time following, the loneliness, the fights.
Because of the way my body seemed hellbent on reacting to him in ways it shouldn't have.
I wondered if it would be odd to call down to the front desk for about six extra pillows. The barrier wall might have been juvenile, but things felt almost... risky without it.
As silly as that was.
"You taking a bath?"
"Ah, yeah," I agreed, taking my bag when he extended it to me, thankful for an excuse to get a little space. From him. From the bed. From the things that him and that bed could mean. And the way my body heated at just that thought alone.
"I'll see you in a few hours. Try not to get the blood everywhere." I must have had a taken aback look, because he smirked. "From the sacrifice to the beauty gods," he explained, making me smile before I locked myself in the bathroom and ran my tub.
I felt acutely aware as I reached for the hem of my shirt of the fact that Warren was simply one door away from me, feeling almost irrationally exposed as I stripped out of my clothes, like he could see through the wall.
And that idea, yeah, it wasn't helping the overly sensitive state of my body.
The water felt too hot on my already warmed skin, felt way too erotic as it enveloped me, too sensual as it lapped up over my hardened nipples, tweaking them further until they were almost painful, until the glide of a drop as it moved down my chest made my legs clamp tight together, trying to calm the chaos I felt there.
In the other room, I could hear Warren's boots drop down on the floor, could hear the bed give way slightly as he moved on it. I could see him in my mind, resting on his back, arm cocked up, hand behind his neck, making his strong chest look like it was fighting the confines of his t-shirt material.
I hoped - in a small, silly way - that he was thinking of me. Much like I was thinking of him.
Maybe like I was picturing him in the bed, he was imagining me in the tub.
Would that thought set his body ablaze like it did mine? Did he find it impossible to force the thoughts away, to focus on other things? Was he seeing me naked, body aching for touch? Did it make his long for it as well?
I wasn't aware I was even thinking of it as my hand slid up my own ribs, cupping my soft breast, fingers sliding over the nipple, making my breath catch as my eyes closed, thinking of his hands - those huge, work-rough hands - instead of my own, letting the image, letting my touch, drive me upward as my hands worked my nipples for a long moment before one moved a path down my belly, the muscles the fingertips grazed over tensing.
My legs fell open, giving up all pretense at self-control. There was nothing left but the need burning inside me, the tightened coil in my lower belly, turned so taut it felt ready to spring at the lightest of touches.
Which was what I gave myself, shamelessly imagining Warren's fingers tracing between my lips, pulsing teasingly against my opening without pressing inside, moving up at the last possible second to work my clit in slow, thorough circles until my breathing got hitched and frantic, until my body stiffened, back arching, free hand pressing hard against the bath wall, holding myself still as the pleasure built, became overwhelming, unstoppable, uncontrollable.
I remembered at the last possible second to bite into my lip, hissing out my orgasm as my leg kicked out, sloshing water up and over the edge of the tub.
I came down quickly, reality something that could really take the thrill out of a good orgasm as I shot up, reaching for the towels I had grabbed for myself, dropping them down on the floor to sponge up the water I had spilled. I drained the tub, hastily drying myself, trying not to think about it. To harp on it. To wonder if it all meant something.
There could be time for that later.
Or never.
Never would work for me too.
Besides, you didn't need to analyze every self-care session. No one knew it happened to judge you on it. And sometimes you just needed it so you could simply think straight for a change.
And straight thinking was what I needed tonight, I decided as I carefully dried my hair, applied makeup that I rarely wore, slathered on some expensive lotion that smelled like vanilla ice cream, then slipped into a black dress, the kind that fit like a second skin, making me suddenly wish I hadn't eaten quite so much on the street this afternoon. But what was done was done. Whatever was leftover of my food baby would just have to be embraced since this was the only acceptable thing I had to wear to a fancy dinner.
Sliding my feet into heels that I was no master at, but usually managed not to make a fool of myself in, I took a deep breath, looking at my reflection.
It would be silly to say that I didn't recognize myself. Of course I did. I was just me. But different as well. My eyes popped with mascara and some subtle liner. My lips were bright red, giving me a glamorous look that I never would usually think I was capable of possessing. My hair, so often - almost always if I were honest - twisted into a careless messy bun looked longer than I remembered, falling in sleek sheets to my shoulders, waving slightly because my hair refused ever to stay completely straight. My body, usually made shorter thanks to the choppy cuts of jean shorts and a tee or tank, looked leaner and longer in a well-fitting dress. My legs, short by any standard looked almost model-like with the heels to give them the illusion of length.
As I looked at my reflection, I couldn't seem to help the thought that came to me.
I wonder what Warren will think?
I wasn't supposed to care.
Just for show.
Just for the show.
But I was beginning to find it impossible to deny the truth anymore. I wondered, in fact, how long I had been doing so, lying to myself, pretending, avoiding, denying the truth.
I had feelings for Warren.
Absurd? Sort of.
But true nonetheless.
Maybe it wasn't even that unexpected.
We were both strong personalities, both passionate, skillful, interested in many of the same things. We worked, ate, slept, lived together for weeks, getting to know the rhythms of each other's days, what foods we liked, or hated, what shows or activities we found joy in, what things annoyed or excited us.
And, well, there was chemistry.
That kiss was all the proof you could need of that.
It was one for the books.
Literally.
It needed to be immortalized in a book sometime, so everyone could experience it in a way, could know what it was like for a man to grab you and kiss you like he meant it, to break through all the bullshit and show you what had been hiding there, to show you something about yourself that you had somehow managed to overlook.
Ugh.
I needed not to be thinking those thoughts.
Because solid orgasm and all, my body was already getting ideas again.
I shook off the thoughts, grabbed my phone, and headed out into the room, stopping short at seeing Warren standing looking out the sliding doors, the lights of the city bright as they always were, his strong back blocking a huge chunk of it.
He had gotten ready while I had monopolized the bathroom. His usual well-loved jeans, boots, and tee were gone, replaced by black slacks and a slate gray dress shirt that fit so well it had to have been tailored to do so.
I must have made a noise.
Lord knows my body was having all kinds of non-verbal reactions to the sight, so it wouldn't have been all that unusual if some kind of whimpering sound escaped me, drawing attention to the fact that I was standing there, the carpet having silenced the click of my heels, allowing me a blissful moment to take him in before he turned and noticed me as well.
"Christ," he hissed, shaking his head a little like he wasn't sure he was actually seeing what he was, a thirsty man in the desert being tricked by a mirage of a waterfall.
His eyes moved over me, taking in every small change - the hair, makeup, the tightness of the dress that showed off a figure I generally didn't dress to accentuate, my bare legs, the heels my feet were slipped into.
Every inch felt heated under his inspection, like there was a physical touch attached to the gaze, making a shiver somehow course through me, goosebumps rising up on my skin.
"It was worth it."
"Excuse me?" I asked, sure I misheard him.
"The blood sacrifice," he told me, his lips curving up, but it seemed forced, not meeting his eyes, barely even lighting up his face.
"You clean up nice too," I told him because it was true. "Should we take a picture in the room before heading out?" I asked, feeling awkward as he kept looking at me. "I think a mirror selfie is pretty standard in this sort of situation."
He said nothing as he followed me into the bathroom, as I unlocked my phone and flipped the camera.
He said nothing as his arm slid across my lower belly, so low that it was pressing down on the triangle above my sex as he slid behind me, crushing my back to his front, resting his head on the side of mine as I couldn't seem to do anything but stand there with my arm aloft with the cell phone, watching our reflections as my body seemed to short circuit there was so much going on within it.
"We're gonna miss our reservation," he told me, voice soft, his breath making my hair dance slightly.
"Right," I agreed, moving my thumb over to the capture button.
And the second it hovered there, his lips pressed into the side of my head.
I clicked the button because my hand spazzed, not because I meant to, too surprised to claim that much control over my actions.
But the second he heard the shutter, he yanked away from me, leaving me almost unsteady on my heels, making my hand slam down on the sink vanity for a second, something he luckily missed because his back was to me as he left the room.
I needed to get a hold of myself.
If I was going to survive this night when he was - obviously - going to keep touching me, smiling at me like he meant it, maybe even kissing me, saying things that my mind and body could easily confuse.
But it wasn't for me.
It was for show.
It meant nothing.
Not for him.
Though, if I were being honest, it did mean something.
To me.
And that, yeah, that was going to be a problem, wasn't it?