“It’s not permanent, so don’t thank me. I’m still not cool with this whole situation.” I take another bite of the pizza I ordered for myself . . . and ended up sharing with Richard. I need to find a way to take some of the pressure off of Tessa. She has too much going on lately, and if I can help her in any way by handling this mess with her father, I will.
“I know it. I’m surprised you haven’t thrown me out yet,” he says with a laugh. As if that’s something to make a joke about. I stare at him. His eyes look too large for his face, with dark rings showing through his white skin.
I sigh. “So am I,” I admit with annoyance.
Richard quivers while I stare at him—not from intimidation, but from a lack of whatever the hell drug it is that he’s used to taking.
I want to know if he brought any drugs into our apartment while he was staying here just last week. However, if I ask him and he says yes, I’ll lose my temper and he’ll be out of my apartment within seconds. For Tessa’s sake, and for mine, I rise to my feet and leave the living room with my empty plate in hand. The stack of dirty dishes in the sink has managed to double in size, and loading the dishwasher is the last thing I want to do at the moment.
“Do the dishes as payment!” I call to Richard.
I hear his deep laughter from the hallway, and he walks into the kitchen just as I reach the bedroom door and close it.
I want to call Tessa again, just to hear her voice. I want to know about the rest of her day . . . What does she plan to do after work? Did she stare at her phone with a stupid-ass grin on her face after we hung up earlier, like I did?
Probably not.
I now know that all my past sins are finally catching up to me—that’s why Tessa was given to me. A merciless punishment disguised as a beautiful reward. Having her for months just to have her taken from me, yet still dangling in front of my face by means of casual phone calls. I don’t know how much longer it will be until I succumb to my fate and finally allow myself to break out of this denial.
Denial, that’s exactly what this is.
It doesn’t have to be, though. I can change the outcome of all this. I can be who she needs me to be without dragging her down to my hell again.
Fuck this, I’m calling her.
Her phone rings and rings, yet she doesn’t pick up. It’s almost six—she should be done with work and back at her place. Where the hell else would she go? While debating whether or not to call Christian, I push my feet into my gym shoes, lazily tie them, and shove my arms through my jacket.
I know she’ll be upset—beyond mad, surely—if I call him, but I’ve already called her six times, and she hasn’t answered once. I groan and run my fingers over my unwashed hair. This giving-each-other-space shit is really fucking irritating me.
“I’m going out,” I tell my unwanted houseguest. He nods, unable to speak due to the handful of potato chips that he’s shoveling into his mouth. At least the sink is free of dishes now.
Where the fuck am I even supposed to go?
Within minutes, my car is parked in the lot behind the small gym. I don’t know what being here will accomplish or if this shit will help me, but right now I’m growing more and more irritated at Tessa, and all I can think about doing is cussing her out or driving to Seattle to find her. I don’t need to do either of those things . . . they’d only make things worse.
chapter seventy-seven
TESSA
By the time my plate is clear, I’m practically twitching in my seat. The moment we ordered our meals I realized that I left my phone in my car, and it’s driving me more insane than it should. No one really calls me much. However, I can’t help but think that maybe Hardin has, or at least sent me a text message. I’m trying my best to listen to Trevor while he talks about an article in the Times he read, trying not to think of Hardin and the possibility that he may have called, but I can’t help it. I’m distracted during the entire dinner and am positive that Trevor notices; he’s just too kind to call me out on it.
“Don’t you agree?” Trevor’s voice pulls me from my thoughts.
I scramble through the last few seconds of conversation, trying to remember what he could be talking about. The article was about health care . . . I think.
“Yeah, I do,” I lie. I have no clue if I agree or not, but I do wish the server would hurry and bring our check.
As if on cue, the young man places a small booklet on our table, and Trevor hastily pulls out his wallet.
“I can . . .” I begin.
But he slides several bills inside, and the server disappears back into the restaurant kitchen. “It’s on me.”
I quietly thank him and glance at the large stone clock hanging just above the door. It’s past seven; we’ve been in the restaurant for over an hour. I let out a breath of relief when Trevor says, “Well,” claps his hands, and stands.
On the way back to his place, we pass a small coffee shop, and Trevor raises his brow, a silent invitation.
“Maybe another night this week?” I offer with a smile.
“Sounds like a plan.” The corner of his mouth rises into his famous half smile, and we continue the trek to his building.
With a quick goodbye and a friendly hug, I climb into my car and immediately reach for my phone. I’m frazzled with anxiety and desperation, but I shove those feelings back into the darkness. Nine missed calls, every single one from Hardin.
I call him back immediately, only to get his voicemail. The drive from Trevor’s apartment to Kimberly’s house is long and tedious. The traffic in Seattle is terrible, bumper-to-bumper and noisy. Honking horns, small cars whipping from lane to lane—it’s pretty overwhelming, and by the time I pull into the driveway, I have a massive headache.
When I step through the front door, I see Kimberly seated on the white leather couch, a glass of wine in her hand. “How was your day?” she asks and leans over to place her drink onto the glass table in front of her.
“Good. But the traffic in this city is unreal,” I groan and plop down on the crimson chair next to the window. “My head is killing me.”
“Yeah, it is. Have some wine for your headache.” She stands up and walks across the living room.
Before I can protest, she pours the bubbling white wine into a long-stemmed glass and brings it to me. Taking a little sip, I find it’s cool and crisp, sweet on my tongue.
“Thank you,” I say with a smile and take bigger sip.
“So . . . you were with Trevor, right?” Kimberly is so nosy . . . in the sweetest way.
“Yes, we had a friendly dinner. As friends,” I say innocently.
“Maybe you could try answering again and use the word ‘friend’ a few more times,” she teases, and I can’t help but laugh.
“I’m just trying to make it clear that we’re only . . . uh . . . friends.”
Her brown eyes shine with curiosity. “Does Hardin know you were being friends with Trevor?”
“No, but I plan on telling him as soon as I speak to him. He doesn’t care for Trevor, for some reason.”
She nods. “I can’t blame him. Trevor could be a model, if he wasn’t so shy. Have you seen those blue eyes of his?” She exaggerates her words by fanning her face with her free hand, and we both giggle like schoolgirls.
“Don’t you mean green eyes, love?” Christian says as he suddenly appears in the foyer, causing me to nearly drop my glass of wine onto the hardwood floor.
Kim smiles at him. “Of course I do.”
But he just shakes his head and gives us both a sly smile. “I suppose I could be a model as well,” he comments with a wink. For my part, I’m relieved that he isn’t upset. Hardin would have flipped the table over if he caught me speaking about Trevor the way Kimberly was.
Christian sits down on the couch next to Kimberly, and she climbs into his lap. “And how’s Hardin doing? You’ve spoken to him, I assume?” he asks.
I look away. “Yes, a little. He’s good.”
“Stubborn,
he is. I’m still offended that he hasn’t taken me up on my offer, given his situation.”
Christian smiles into Kim’s neck and kisses her softly just beneath her ear. These two clearly have no issue with public displays of affection. I try to look away again, but I can’t.
Wait . . .
“What offer?” I ask, my surprise obvious.
“Why, the job I offered him—I told you about it, didn’t I? I wish he’d come out here. I mean, he only has, what, one semester left, and he’ll be graduating early, no?”
What? Why didn’t I know about this? This is the first I’ve heard about Hardin graduating early. But I respond, “Erm, yeah . . . I believe so.”
Christian wraps his arms around Kimberly and rocks her a little. “He’s practically a genius, that boy. If he had applied himself a little more, his GPA would be a perfect four.”
“He really is very smart . . .” I agree. And it’s true. Hardin’s mind never ceases to surprise and intrigue me. It’s one of the things that I love most about him.
“Quite the writer, too,” he says and steals a sip of Kimberly’s wine. “I don’t know why he decided to stop. I was looking forward to reading more of his work.” Christian sighs while Kimberly undoes the silver tie around his neck.
I’m overwhelmed by this information. Hardin . . . writing? I remember him briefly mentioning that he used to dabble a little in it during his freshman year of college, but he never went into detail. Every time I brought it up in conversation, he’d change the subject or pooh-pooh the idea, giving me the impression that it wasn’t very important to him.
“Yeah.” I finish off my wine and stand, pointing to the bottle. “May I?”
Kimberly nods. “Of course, have as much as you please. We have an entire cellarful,” she says with a sweet smile.
Three glasses of white wine later, my headache has evaporated and my curiosity has grown geometrically. I wait for Christian to bring up Hardin’s writing or the job offer again, but he doesn’t. He dives into a full-blown business discussion about how he has been in talks with a media group to expand Vance Publishing’s in-house film and television efforts. As interesting as it is, I want to get to my room and try to call Hardin again. When an appropriate opening presents itself, I wish them a both a good night and excuse myself to rush off to my temporary bedroom.
“Take the bottle with you!” Kimberly calls to me just as I pass the table where the half-full wine bottle rests.
I nod, thanking her, and do just that.
chapter seventy-eight
HARDIN
I walk into the apartment, my legs still sore from kicking the hell out of that bag at the gym. Grabbing a water bottle from the fridge, I try to ignore the sleeping man on my couch. It’s for her, I remind myself. All for her. I gulp down half of the bottle, dig my phone out of my gym bag, and turn on the power. Just as I try to call her, her name pops up on my screen.
“Hello?” I answer as I pull my sweat-soaked T-shirt over my head and toss it to the floor.
“Hi” is all she says.
Her response is short. Too short. I want to talk to her. I need her to want to talk to me.
I kick at my shirt, then pick it up, knowing that if she could see me, she’d scowl at me for being such a slob. “What are you up to?”
“I went out exploring the city,” she answers calmly. “I tried to call you back, but it went to your voicemail.” The sound of her voice soothes my temper.
“I went back to that gym.” I lie back on the bed, wishing she were here with me, her head on my chest, instead of in Seattle.
“You did? That’s great!” she says, then adds, “I’m taking my shoes off.”
“Okay . . .”
She giggles. “I don’t know why I told you that.”
“Are you drunk?” I sit up, using one elbow to hold my weight.
“I’ve had some wine,” she admits. I should have caught that immediately.
“With who?”
“Kimberly, and Mr. Vance . . . Christian, I mean.”
“Oh.” I don’t know how I feel about her going out drinking in a foreign city, but I know it’s not the time to bring that up.
“He says you’re an amazing writer,” she says, accusation clear in her voice. Fuck.
“Why would he say that?” I reply. My heart pounds.
“I don’t know. Why won’t you write anymore?” Her voice is full of wine and curiosity.
“I don’t know. But I don’t want to talk about me. I want to talk about you and Seattle and why you’ve been avoiding me.”
“Well, he also said you’re graduating next semester,” she says, ignoring my words.
Christian obviously has no idea how to mind his own damned business. “Yeah, so?”
“I didn’t know that,” Tessa says. I hear her shuffling around, and she groans, clearly irritated.
“I wasn’t hiding it from you, it just didn’t come up. You have a long time before you graduate, so it doesn’t matter anyway. It’s not like I was going to go anywhere.”
“Hang on,” she says into the phone. What the hell is she doing? How much wine has she drunk?
After listening to her mumble incomprehensibly and futz around, I finally ask, “What are you doing?”
“What? Oh, my hair was caught in my shirt buttons. Sorry, I was listening, I promise.”
“Why were you grilling your boss about me, anyway?”
“He brought you up. You know, since he offered you a job a couple of times and you refused, you were a topic,” she says with emphasis.
“Old news.” I don’t exactly remember mentioning the offer, but I wasn’t purposely keeping it from her. “My intentions concerning Seattle have always been clear.”
“You can say that again,” she says, and I can practically see her rolling her eyes . . . again.
I change the subject. “You didn’t answer when I called you. I called so many times.”
“I know, I left my phone in the car at Trevor’s . . .” She stops midsentence.
I stand from the bed and pace across the room. I fucking knew it.
“He was only showing me around as friends, that’s it.” She’s quick to defend herself.
“You didn’t answer my calls because you were with fucking Trevor?” I growl, my pulse quickening with each beat of the silence that meets my question.
Then she snaps: “Don’t you fight with me over Trevor, he’s only a friend, and you’re the one who isn’t here. You don’t choose my friends, do you understand?”
“Tessa . . .” I warn.
“Hardin Allen Scott!” she exclaims, and bursts into laughter.
“Why are you laughing?” I ask, but I can’t help the smile that takes over my face. Fuck, I’m pathetic.
“I . . . don’t know!”
The sound of her laughter resonates through my ears and travels straight down to my heart, warming my chest.
“You should put the wine down,” I tease, wishing I could see her roll her eyes in response to my scolding her.
“Make me,” she challenges, her voice thick and playful.
“If I was there, I would—you can be damned sure of that.”
“What else would you do if you were here?” she asks me.
I drop back onto my bed. Is she taking this where I think she is? I never know with her, especially when she’s been drinking.
“Theresa Lynn Young—are you trying to have phone sex with me?” I taunt her.
Immediately she coughs violently—choking on a gulp of wine, I assume. “What! No! I . . . I was just asking!” she squeals.
“Sure, you can deny it now,” I joke, laughing at her horrified tone.
“Unless . . . is that something you want to do?” she whispers.
“You’re serious?” The thought alone makes my cock twitch.
“Maybe . . . I don’t know. Are you mad about Trevor?” The tone of her voice is much more intoxicating to me than any amount of wine I could consume.
/> Hell yes I’m irritated that she was with him, but that’s not what I want to discuss right now. I hear her gulp loudly, followed by the soft clink of a glass. “I don’t give a shit about fucking Trevor right now,” I lie. Then I command, “Don’t chug the wine.” I know her too well. “You’ll get sick.”
I hear a couple of loud gulps come through the phone. “You can’t boss me around long distance.” She’s chugging the wine again, to build up her nerve, I’m sure.
“I can boss you around from any distance, baby.” I grin, running my fingers over my lips.
“Can I tell you something?” she asks quietly.
“Please do.”
“I was thinking about you today, and when you came to my office that first time . . .”
“You were thinking about me fucking you when you were with him?” I ask her, praying she says yes.
“At the time, I was waiting for him.”
“Tell me more about it, tell me what you were thinking,” I press.
This is so fucking confusing. Every time I’m talking to her I feel as if we aren’t “taking a break,” that everything is the same as it’s always been. The only difference at the moment is that I can’t physically see her, or touch her. Fuck, I want to touch her, run my tongue across her smooth skin . . .
“I was thinking about how . . .” she starts, but then takes another drink.
“Don’t be embarrassed.” I coax her to continue.
“That I liked it, and it made me want to do it again.”
“With who?” I ask, just to hear her say it.
“You, only you.”
“Good,” I say with a smooth grin. “You’re still mine, even though you’re making me give you space; you’re still only for me—you know that, don’t you?” I ask her in the most gentle way I possibly can.
“I know,” she says. My chest swells, and I welcome the flood of relief that comes along with her words. “Are you mine?” she asks in a voice filled with much more confidence than it had moments ago.
“Yes, always.”
I don’t have a choice. I haven’t since the day I met you, I want to add, but I stay quiet, nervously awaiting her response.