by Elise Faber
No, not owed.
I wanted to share, wanted this man to know me. Not because of some scoreboard, but because I wanted to get close to him. I wanted to let him in. And maybe that was critically stupid considering my past experiences with men, with my parents.
But . . . Archer.
With him, I couldn’t bar the door, couldn’t continue to keep the gates closed. He’d battered them down. No. He had the key because I wanted him close, had hope that he wouldn’t look closely, see what was inside me, and find me lacking.
And if he did?
My heart spasmed.
Well, the ride would hopefully be worth it.
“Everything was transactional,” I said, when he just continued to stroke my palm with his thumb, waiting patiently for me to get my mind wrapped around my thoughts. “I did what they wanted—exactly what they wanted—and things were great. I had all the toys, the video games, the treats I wanted. If I spoke out of turn or questioned something or, heaven forbid, made my own decision, then it was like I murdered someone’s cat.”
I tugged my hand free, pushed out of my chair, and paced back and forth across the kitchen. “God, the punishments for not wearing a certain blouse or for asking to have a certain meal.” I stopped, spun back. “I’m not saying I was the perfect kid. I had my temper tantrums. I definitely deserved some of the punishments . . .”
“But,” Archer murmured when I let that trail off for a long while, “not all of them.”
“No,” I agreed. “But I lived that way for a long time. I dated who they said to date. I studied what they said to study. And I was going to marry who they said to marry.” Fucking hell, I’d dodged a bullet there. If I’d walked down that aisle, I would have continued to live a small life, boxed in and compressed from all directions, not thinking for myself, not living for myself. “I was weak for a long time,” I said, “but eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore.”
“What happened?”
The memories washed over me, a cold wave sneaking up and out of the Pacific, snatching me and dragging me into the frigid sea. “I exploded. I called off the wedding . . . or rather, I ran away from it. In my dress and heels, my veil flying behind me. The perfectly done makeup and hair. I finally saw what was waiting for me at the end of the aisle, and I just couldn’t do it.”
“What’d you do then?”
“I ran all the way home, if you can believe it.” God, my feet had hurt. I’d kicked off my heels, ran with bare feet until I’d made it home. “And then I changed. Packed a suitcase, bought a bus ticket to California, and I moved on with my life.”
My parents had been absolutely furious.
I’d tried to call them from the road, wanting to let them know I was okay. And after my parents were sure I wasn’t coming home, wasn’t going to beg Derek for forgiveness, to go through with the wedding, they disowned me completely.
Probably for the best.
If I’d stayed, my life wouldn’t have been this big. I would have been limited, too afraid to step outside the box and go for the things I wanted because . . .
I froze, felt my face go pale. My heart pounded against my ribs, a cold sweat slicking down my spine when I realized—
“What is it, sweetheart?”
“Hold on,” I said, breathing heavily as I sank down into a crouch, my fingers burying themselves into my hair. “I’m having an existential crisis here.”
Fucking hell.
Because I realized that I’d made myself small anyway.
I’d left that life to find something more, to live loud and big and . . .
I hadn’t.
I hadn’t gone for relationships I’d wanted because I was scared and weak. I’d let go and burrowed deep into my safe shelter of work, of distance, of being disconnected. And I’d let stuff fly by me, drift away into the atmosphere, able to accept it because I’d convinced myself that it wouldn’t have worked out anyway.
I’d left to find myself, to live big and full and instead . . . I hadn’t.
This time I was the one who’d made myself small.
I was so fucking stupid.
Chapter Fifteen
Archer
One second, she’d looked absolutely distraught, crouched on the floor, her hands in her hair.
I’d gotten up, crossed to her, concerned by the expression on her face.
And the next instant, she’d launched herself at me, knocking me back onto my ass, causing us both to sprawl across the floor.
“Oh, shit,” she said, patting at my chest. “I’m sorry. I just—”
“First, don’t apologize for climbing on top of me.” I waggled my brows then grinned when she rolled her eyes. “Second”—I cupped her cheek—“what was that about an existential crisis?”
Her face shadowed, anger flashing across her face.
Then she sighed, and it melted away. “I left home to live my own life, but I fucking brought that small, stifling existence with me. I made it impossible to ever consider that I wouldn’t disappoint friends or partners. I didn’t even give myself the chance to figure out what I wanted.” Tears in those brown eyes. “I gave up. I failed.”
“That’s bullshit,” I said. A trickle of hurt crept into the lines of her mouth, and I quickly added, “I didn’t mean it like that. I just . . . you figured out work. I only know whatever glossed-over version you can tell people about your job, but I know it’s big and important and that you’re really good at it.” I ran my finger over her bottom lip when she opened her mouth to protest. “I’m not saying you’re not right about the personal stuff, just that when you’re saying you failed, you didn’t.”
“I’ve run from any shred of intimacy since the moment I left home.”
I slid my hand from her cheek down to the side of her neck. “And I married someone I knew I shouldn’t have, just because my parents died.”
Her eyes flashed. “You had trauma.”
I lightly squeezed her neck. “So did you.”
Niki inhaled sharply.
“The past doesn’t define the path we choose now. You can be different. You don’t have to fit into the mold your parents created, or even the one you created.” I gently gripped her neck again. “Today, you can change. Today, you can take one step in the direction of the person you want to be.”
Her breath shuddered out. “How?”
“How what?” I asked. I’d thrown a lot at her in the last few statements.
Eyes sliding closed, her body shifting forward on mine, bending until she rested her forehead on my collarbone. “How can you be so smart and well-adjusted?”
I laughed. “Most of the time, I feel the opposite.” Threading my fingers into her hair, I lifted her head so I could meet her eyes. “But truthfully, I know I’m a work in progress, and after my parents died, I was really messed up. I pushed through to the wedding, I think half just on adrenaline and half because it was already planned. But a week after my honeymoon, I crashed. I couldn’t get out of bed, was depressed. For months, I just shrank into a shell of myself.” I shook my head. “Eventually, though, my baby brother hauled me to therapy, helped me get the medication I needed, and sat in the waiting room for me twice a week while I got my head straight. My baby brother looked after me.”
“He loves you.”
A nod. “The therapy helped. It took a long time to work through everything, to come to terms with the loss, with my failure to live on in some meaningful way when my parents had lost the chance to do the same, the added guilt that came from not being the strong one.” My heart throbbed at the memory, at the agony of my parents being gone, at the pain of realizing that everything in my life had changed in one moment. “Eventually, I was able to wean off the medication, to get back to my art, to start living again, and . . . to realize that my marriage wasn’t working.”
She inhaled. “So, you came up here?”
“Kace reached out, asked if I could do him a solid, and my divorce was just final. A move made sense. I needed a fresh
start, and it wasn’t too far from my brother.” I ran my fingers through her hair. “Then some woman glared at me from across the bar a month ago, and it was like everything inside me had realigned, refocused, and I finally felt alive again.”
“Archer,” she murmured.
“Still hate my name?” I teased lightly.
A light swat, though her eyes danced. “It is a terrible name,” she said, “but since it’s the name of the man I’m dating, then I guess I just have to deal with it.”
“Dating?” I asked.
She nodded. “Dating.” A beat, a slender thread of insecurity weaving through her expression. “Unless—”
I pistoned up, slanting my mouth across hers, kissing her with every bit of emotion I felt—affection and warmth, fury that she’d been so hurt, understanding that the past had brought us both together, and desire . . . the raging need this woman stoked inside me.
“Eat,” I burst out, setting her away from me. “The food is getting cold.”
Niki froze, her brown eyes wild, her hair an absolute mess from my fingers, her lips swollen and tempting me to taste her again. Then she blinked and laughed, standing up and offering her hand. “Let’s eat.”
The click-clicking woke me up, and it took a minute for me to process the sound.
Then I peeled back my lids, saw the rectangle of faint blue light shining under the closed door to the right.
I’d slept in Niki’s bed.
After I’d eaten in Niki’s kitchen.
After she’d shared . . .
So much. After I’d shared. After she hadn’t kicked me out the front door, running from the moment of intimacy.
So yeah, that hope, the thin vine that had been growing over the last few days had been fertilized, for lack of a better term, and was now hearty, its roots gripping tight beneath the surface.
But now the bed was empty, the click-clicking coming through the door the only sign of the sexy, curvy woman.
I slipped out from beneath the covers, padded across the carpet to find my boxer briefs—tossed there by a torture-minded Niki some number of hours before. Not that I’d minded the torture of her kissing every inch of my body. It was the sweetest temptation, the best torment I’d ever undergone, especially when she’d allowed me to give her the same treatment in return.
Stepping into the boxers, I tried to gauge what time it was. She had blackout shades on her windows, so I couldn’t tell if we’d slept the entire night, or if it had just been a few hours. I wasn’t exhausted, so maybe more than a few. Although, I definitely had more energy when I was around her.
As though just being in her presence brightened my life.
And I supposed that was how it should be.
Not bereft without her there. Not weighed down when with her. But also just . . . more when I was near her.
Maybe that didn’t make any sense.
Maybe I was beyond caring if it did or not.
I approached the door and knocked softly, not wanting to interrupt if she was busy, but the door must not have been shut all the way because the moment my fist made contact with the wood, it slid open to reveal . . .
A pants-less Niki standing at her computer, wearing just a tiny pair of underwear and a loose tank top.
No bra.
Which I knew because when she turned toward me, the light from the monitors shone right through that thin material.
Breasts.
Sweet Christ, she had a magnificent set.
“You’re staring,” she murmured.
“You’re gorgeous,” I countered.
Her lips curved, but then her computer chimed, and she glanced back at the screen, cursing as she bent closer, her fingers flying over the keyboard. “No, no,” she moaned, tilting another screen toward her, images appearing and disappearing faster than I could track. “Shit,” she muttered. “Fucking, motherfucker.” Somehow, her fingers flew faster, and I slipped out of the room, closing the door behind me before making my way over to my pants, digging in my pocket until I found my cell.
Seven-thirty-two.
She’d let me stay the whole night, hadn’t booted me out or run away, though I supposed the latter would have been challenging, considering it was her house. Still, before the issue with her work, she’d smiled at me.
So, I was taking seven-thirty-two as a victory.
I tugged on my pants, my shirt, tracked down my shoes and socks before moving quietly out of the bedroom and downstairs, where I surveyed the meager contents of Niki’s fridge and pantry (dismal) and decided to brew some coffee before heading down the street toward the bakery I’d spotted when driving over.
While the pot hissed and spit, I took care of the dishes in the sink—something that Niki wouldn’t let me touch the night before and something I couldn’t ignore this morning. Especially, since it only took a few minutes.
Then when the coffee was done, I poured a cup, brought it upstairs, and swapped it out with an empty mug on her desk, even as she continued typing. She didn’t glance away from the screen, nor even acknowledge me, but I didn’t get my feelings hurt. I knew something of what it was like to be so focused on my work that the rest of the world faded away, and if something was going wrong, I wasn’t going to mess with her flow.
I closed the door behind me, stumbled upon a spare set of keys as I headed outside, locked up, and made my way down the street.
The bakery, less than a block away, had a small storefront, but through the glass on the swinging double doors, I could see a large industrial kitchen with several workers buzzing around.
When the bell overhead rang as I entered, a blonde with blue-green eyes appeared, wiping her hands on her apron that was emblazoned with . . .
“Iris?” I asked.
She smiled, came over, and gave me a hug. “Archer, it’s good to see you.” She was married to Brent, the former full-time bartender turned student-slash-now-very-rare-fill-in at Bobby’s. “It’s been ages.”
I’d taken Brent’s position in the afternoon/evenings when he’d gotten too busy with school, and I was well-familiar with her delicious baked goods. “I didn’t know you owned this place,” I said. The last I’d heard, she had a small kitchen near the bar.
“We moved a couple of months ago.” A shrug. “Outgrew the last space.” Her head tilted to the side. “I didn’t think you lived in this part of town.”
“I . . .” Here, I faltered, wondering what Niki would think about me sharing a piece of information that would surely get back to the bar, and thus, back to her employee, Hayden. But she’d told me we were dating, and people who were dating didn’t hide. Not unless it was some romance novel or romcom fake relationship thing, and since this was neither of those two things, I said, “I’m actually dating Dominque, so I wanted to come in and pick up some treats for her.”
Mention the dating.
Mention the baked goods.
Keep my nickname to myself.
“Hayden’s Dominque?” Iris asked, raising her brows.
I nodded.
Iris smiled. “Oh, that’s perfect! I actually just pulled out her favorite from the oven.” She walked back behind the counter, pulled a pink box from somewhere and began folding it up. “I’ll go package up some for her. What do you want?” she asked. “Pick anything, and it’s on the house.”
“Oh no,” I began, but then she walked through the double doors without a backward glance, and I was left saying, “That’s okay, I’ll pay,” to myself and the empty room.
A moment later, she returned, presumably with a box of Niki’s favorites and approached the glass case. “What’ll you have?”
I pointed at a muffin that looked mouthwateringly fattening and delicious.
“Chocaholic,” Iris said with a smile. “I’ll remember that.” She used tongs to put a put couple of muffins into the box then taped it closed. “There you go.” She passed it over to me, stepping back when I tried to give her some money.
Sighing, I tucked a twenty into th
e tip jar, ignored her narrowed eyes, then called my goodbyes, walking out the front door.
A few minutes later, I was approaching Niki’s house and letting myself in.
It was quiet inside, so I put the box on the counter and peeked inside. Chocolate croissants and chocolate muffins. Two chocoholics, I thought. That was fitting.
I snagged a plate, put a croissant on it, and filled another mug with coffee, bringing both upstairs to Niki’s office.
She was on the phone now but aware enough that she saw me come in.
I didn’t interrupt, just swapped out the empty mug for the fresh one, found a safe place to stash the plate with the croissant, then brushed my knuckles over her cheek before I slipped back out, shutting the door behind me.
The key burned a hole in my pocket after I’d left a note next to the bakery box, one muffin wrapped in a paper towel, and stepped onto the front porch. But Niki was distracted and upstairs, and I couldn’t just leave the house unlocked now, could I?
No. I couldn’t.
Just like I couldn’t safely leave it under the mat.
Any yahoo might walk up and find it.
What if she had an Amazon delivery, and the dude decided to help him or herself to those baked goods?
Niki might commit murder.
So I locked up, pocketed the key again, and headed to my car. That was the safest course of action for everyone, including the neighborhood delivery drivers.
I drove home with a smile on my face, my heart full, and a muffin in my belly.
Because I just couldn’t wait.
Chapter Sixteen
Niki
I finally took a breath, my neck and shoulders aching, and realized I wasn’t wearing any pants.
Then I remembered that Archer had come in and out several times.
And I hadn’t even acknowledged him.
Because one of our tracing programs, one whose source code I’d written in an effort to infiltrate a certain faction of the Russian mob, had been discovered.