CHAPTER 8
I towel off, slide into my robe, and secure the belt around my waist. As I’m brushing out my wet hair with my fingers, I find Evan on the other side of the apartment. He’s setting the table.
Not that I wanted him to, but I expected him to weasel his way into joining me. I thought that’s why he was acting nervous. Maybe I’ve been misreading him? Maybe what I mistook for flirting was him being, well, Evan. Why should I be surprised I can’t decipher his signals? Would I even know a signal if it smacked me in the face? Probably not.
“You hungry?” he asks.
I shrug. “Smells good.”
He drags out a chair for me at the table. I stare at it and consider whether I should sit. My mind says no but my stomach grumbles at the tempting aroma wafting from the stove. I tuck my robe tighter around my chest and my thighs before taking a seat. He plates pasta with sauce and hands it to me.
“Wine?” he asks.
“Water’s fine.” Before I answer, he’s started to pour wine into my glass.
“How will you seduce me if we aren’t drinking?” He grins.
“What?” My heels lift and toes tense. I’ll admit I’ve thought of him, but it’s one thing for me to play with a fantasy of us together in my mind, and another for him to believe I would pursue him.
“I’m joking.” He pours his own glass.
“Right.” Another joke. I catch my leg bouncing beneath the table. I press my hands on my thigh to stop it. Maybe I’m not as adventurous as I hoped I could pretend, because being here is beginning to look painfully stupid. Needing all the help I can muster, I chug the wine, emptying it to the last drop. I place the glass on the table with a clunk.
Evan shoots me the side-eye before refilling it and asks, “Aren’t you dating what’s-his-name from the office?”
At his question I’m confused. Is this another joke? Or does he really think I have a boyfriend? That’s when it dawns on me. Evan believes I’m dating Lou. Lou, who meets me here every morning to walk to work. Lou, who kisses me on the cheek when we see each other, and Lou, who is anything but into girls—unless he can borrow their clothes. Because Lou loves men and works at the drag bar, Tucked, on the weekends.
“You mean Lou?” I ask.
Evan raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, sure, that one.”
“We broke up,” I joke, though Evan will not get how impossible a romantic relationship with Lou would be.
“About eight days ago,” I add, but now I’m outright lying, and I have no idea why. This is the exact amount of days Lou has been on vacation in London.
Evan’s shoveling food into his mouth, but I could swear I hear him mumble, “Good.”
My fork filled with pasta pauses midair. “What’s that?”
He swallows, takes a sip of wine, and says, “Sorry to hear that.”
My gaze drops to my food. Is he jealous of Lou? One tiny corner of my lip tugs upward as I consider his reaction. I curl closer to my plate and shovel more pasta in my mouth.
Evan and I chat for hours. He’s the landlord working on maintenance for our building, but he’s also a private trainer. It explains his healthy body but automatically makes me dream about what’s behind his shirt. Something else I should not be doing. I press my thighs together and shift in my seat before continuing my line of questioning.
From living through Aggie’s conquests, she and I have concluded, but mostly her, that six-pack abs are a myth perpetuated by the media, movies, and romance books. She admitted every guy she’s ever dated was what she considered normal in that area—nothing too perfect, too toned, or too tight, each one the embodiment of the dad bod.
If I was dating I would be fine with that. If I were dating I’d base boyfriends on personality in the hopes of finding a long-term partner. But if, and I mean if I was looking for a hookup and wanted to play my “one-night stand, practically a virgin, never been kissed after I lost my memories” V-card on someone, he would need to be worth it in the looks department.
When I tell Evan the story of how Aggie and I met at Mr. Moon’s, he smiles with his entire body. It spreads from his full lips to his luminous copper eyes, flickering like shining pennies. The joy bursts from his laughter. There’s richness in the sound. It yanks the corner of my own lip, threading it into a permanent smirk.
I’d like to imagine his smile is a special one and it’s all for me. Under the influence of alcohol and admiring him from across the table, I’ve concluded that Evan might fit the bill...if I were ever to choose a hookup. But I won’t, so... I pour another glass of wine.
It’s two in the morning when we’re clearing the table and standing in the kitchen. Side by side, shoulder to shoulder, we make an assembly line. I wash the dishes, hand them over, and he dries them with a kitchen towel.
“So what’s it like working for my brother? Is he as much of a turd as he is to me?” Evan places a dish in the cabinet with a clank.
A pop of a laugh escapes. “Turd is not exactly the word I would use to describe him. More like brilliant and professional.” I shove my hands into the sink of soapy water and scrub the sauce stuck to a plate.
Linden rarely talks about Evan or vice versa. There’s some family drama between them I’m not privy to. Though the memory is foggy, I remember hearing a very serious fight between them. I was outside Evan’s apartment. Their angry shouts were muffled, but the walls of the old building shook with what sounded like a brawl.
“You have to say that because he’s your boss.”
“I have to say that because I like my job and I want to keep it.” I squirt blue soap into the sink.
“I hear you’re good at it.”
“You hear?” I turn to scrutinize him and hand him a new plate to dry. When our gaze connects and I’m about to ask him if he’s been checking up on me, the wet plate slips from my grasp. He scrambles to grab it but misses. It drops to the wood floor with a crash, shattering into a million white shards.
I leap back to save my feet for the second time tonight, but when I glance down, I find a long scrape above my ankle. At the sight of blood trickling down my leg, Evan sweeps me into his brawny chest and carries me to the dining room, stepping over the broken glass like a fire-walker.
With my arms draped around his neck, I’m suddenly hyperaware of three things: his intoxicating rainy scent, his wide heated chest pressed against me seems to singe every point of contact, and the thin layer of silk from my bathrobe and his cotton shirt are the only things separating us.
He settles me on a chair. As soon as he releases me I ache for him to return. He grabs a paper towel from the island, drops to one knee, and wraps my ankle to stop the bleeding. I shiver with an electric chill.
“Doesn’t look too bad.” He assesses after a moment. “If you hold this here, I’ll find my first-aid kit.”
“You’re a doctor too?” I tease.
“A regular Dr. McDreamy.”
“More like a Dr. Doogie.”
“I’ll ignore that comment since I’m about to save you from a slow death.” He returns from the bathroom with a medical box, drops to his knee, unscrews the top to a peroxide bottle, and pours the clear liquid over the wound.
I hiss at the fizzling ache.
“Sorry.” He repeats and cleans what’s left of the clotting blood. He removes a Band-Aid from his medical supplies.
“SpongeBob Band-Aids? Aren’t those for kids?”
“SpongeBob is for everyone.” He unwraps it, removes the backing, and presses it over the wound, smoothing out the edges.
Watching him take care of me causes my heart to contract. I like him a little more than a few minutes ago, and it doesn’t help that his warm hand’s wrapped around my ankle. When he gently rubs the skin back and forth, I glance up to find his gaze pinning me to my seat. Ozzy’s words of wisdom ring in my mind. Here he is, a man at my feet.
“Thanks for saving me.” My words are weak because my heart’s fluttering with the excitement of my itsy-bitsy crush.
I wet my lips. His gaze falls to them and bounces back to mine. His warm hand tightens around my ankle. The air thickens pressing us closer, but he’s not the one who’s moved. It’s me sinking near him until I feather my lips over Evan’s.
His lips are full and soft. Our noses touch. I inhale his exhale. My lids sink closed before I press my lips to his. I linger there unmoving, reveling in the sensation of touching another until it seems his shock wears off, and suddenly he kisses me back in a delicious building rhythm. Our lips part and tongues touch. Wine lingers on his, sweet and heated, and I savor the taste.
Needing more I grip his shirt, balling the cotton between my fingers. He rises on knees to meet me. His firm fingers caress my nape before diving south, slipping over the cool satin of my robe and settling on my lower back. Wide palms grip my ass and tug me to the edge of the chair. My legs slide open. My robe falls away exposing my legs and hips to the chilled air. His waist settles between my thighs, and I clench my knees tighter around him to match his strength.
There’s a restless need in the onward press of his body. The desperate fieriness is similar to the one building inside myself. Every nerve ending sparks, forcing me to melt into him. My head spins in a foggy haze of pleasure when his hands slip beneath the silk. His fingers sink into the flesh of my hips before pulling me closer. I moan into his mouth.
Though I’m nowhere close to done, his pace dwindles and his hands travel up the length of my arms before he eases me away. Our foreheads touch as I catch my breath. The kiss was too brief. My hunger’s not yet satiated. I stare at his swollen lips, ready for more.
“What’s going on here?” He peers at me from beneath a thick bed of dark lashes. His fingertips grasp my waist.
“What do mean?” I suck in a low breath.
“A few days ago you hated me, and now you want to kiss me?” His words are breathless but steady.
“I was annoyed with you. I don’t hate you.”
“And I heard you crying the other night.”
“You heard that?” I thought I was slipping out to run unnoticed.
“I figured it’s because of that douche you broke up with, right?”
Is he testing me?
“Well, well—” I’m clamoring. Temperature rising. I can’t find the correct words to string together that won’t make me sound like a loser, but they never come because I lied about Lou. There’s no way to explain my joke without looking like a jerk. Butterflies race toward the aching pit churning in my stomach.
I want to wrap myself back into my robe and run away, but with him inspecting me so closely, I can’t. Reining in my emotions, I set my jaw to restrain myself. I need to find the proper words along with my determination. I remind myself Evan doesn’t need to know everything. I owe him no explanation. I came here about my broken shower, but now that I’m here in his arms, I consider it might have been more than that.
I recall the photo of Aggie and Adam from earlier tonight. She’s getting what she wants. Maybe I came here because I wanted Evan. Or I wanted to be wanted by Evan. All I know is I want our kiss to continue. I don’t want to suppress what’s between us any longer.
Not wanting to shrink away from control or look weak, I take a deep breath to shift my negative emotions to a clear goal. I need to turn this moment in my favor. I’m a saleswoman. I can do this. I generate the person I am by day, an actress capable of making the people around me believe I’m worthy. That I’m okay. I lift my chin.
“I was thinking you might take my mind off things. No strings attached,” I say in hushed tones.
I lean into Evan, following my instincts. I anchor my arms around his shoulders. My fingers thread into his thick hair. The softness twines around my fingers, and I massage his neck. My legs are still wrapped around his waist so I squeeze them, silently urging him to relent.
Instead of moving in and kissing me again like I expect, he throws his head back in an entertained chuckle. For some reason he’s beyond thrilled with this scenario. I retract in shock. His laughter is too close. The sound I loved earlier zips through me like a lightning bolt of rejection.
“I just propositioned you and your response is to laugh?” I’m confused. My pulse increases. Before he answers, I’ve already decided I won’t like his reason.
He drags my arms off his shoulders until his hands are clasped over mine and settled squarely on my lap. He’s taking his time responding, and now I’m a rigid mess.
“Princess, you couldn’t handle a one-night stand. You’re not the type.”
He says this with such a firm conviction I squall a noise of disgust at the nickname and his assessment. I shove his hands away and stand ramrod. I tighten my robe around my exposed skin. He laughs again as though my action punctuates his point.
“How would you know?” My voice rises higher than I’ve ever spoken to him. I’m hotheaded for being challenged. He rises too.
“Because, let’s see.” He pauses to pluck the reasons from the air. “First, you hid your bras and panties in your closet when I was in your apartment the other night, and at dinner you stiffened like a ruler when I joked you were here to seduce me. And that’s only in the last few weeks.”
Has he been keeping score and tallying every awkward thing I’ve done? I’ve been trying to hide from everyone, but he sees me through his crystal clear lenses, and I don’t like it one bit.
“Shows what you know. Maybe that’s the reason I came down here!” I yell the lie. Or is it a lie? I never thought this night through, but I expect my anger makes a bit of the truth slip. Annoyed on both accounts, I stomp toward the door.
“I’m sorry to disappoint, but I promise one time with me and you won’t be able to walk away. I guarantee it.” Evan’s arrogant and so certain it angers me more. He opens the door and waves me through. In the hall I swivel to face him. My hands clench at my sides while he remains aggravatingly calm.
“Well... well... well...” I stutter, unable to compile a series of words, though there are many vulgar ones racing through my mind.
He conceals another smile by glancing at the floor. His jaw sets before he says, “And before you get any ideas, I’m not looking for a girlfriend.”
My eyes widen and mouth falls slack. He edges the door closed until it softly clicks shut, and I’m staring at a gold plate stamped with his apartment number. Muscles that were already tight twist with an ache. Inside my mind I scream. If I were a cartoon, steam would explode in little atomic clouds from my ears.
From the other side of the door he says, “Good night, Cat.”
“Arrogant ass!” I yell, needing the last word.
When he laughs from inside it pisses me off even more. A mental replay of his laughter follows me up one hundred steps to my apartment. Hidden inside the sharp stab of rejection consumes me. I’m a grade-A idiot. Not for kissing Evan but because he outright turned me down. How would he know if I didn’t have the guts to follow through with a hookup and walk away?
I collapse on my bed with a whomp, arms and legs spread eagle, and face smooshed on my feather pillow. The alcohol from tonight, the depression and crying, the working late nights, and the avalanche of rejection and embarrassment hit me all at once. They swirl in a hot mess, leaving me scorched and raw. I curl into a ball and hide my head under the pillow. Adultness returns in slow painful injections of truth, until my internal storm settles in its usual spot. The dark place reminds me... you’re better off alone.