This Love

by Nazarea Andrews

  Avery

  God, I’m tired. I want to curl up on the unmade bed and sleep for hours. I ball up the newspaper we wrapped his ships in and hang the ship in a bottle on a display. The living room is done—that was the last box to unpack.

  Atticus walks in and carefully lowers a box of new dishes on the counter. I find it odd, that he is just now bothering to buy glass wear, but I don't push it. I shove him lightly aside, and a hand snakes around my waist to steady himself. "I'm going to kill you," he murmurs into my hair.

  I enjoy the touch—more than I should—and I let myself linger there for a moment before I step away and he lets me go.

  "Why?"

  "Third floor, Avery. Wasn't the best idea you've ever had."

  I smirk. "You need to do something to keep that fine physique."

  Atticus pauses, a slow smile turning his lips. "Fine, huh?'

  "Don't, Atti," I warn as he prowls closer. "It doesn't change anything—I'm still not interested."

  His breath brushes my cheek, he is so close. His lips are teasingly close, and it occurs to me that I still haven't tasted them—he's only ever kissed my neck.

  "You keep saying you aren't interested, but you aren't going anywhere. Why is that, Avery?"

  I don't want to answer—there isn't a safe answer. He steps away, and I finish unpacking the dishes.

  The apartment is empty, really. A TV and gaming system—a sound system that I know is new. A bed and some clothes. The desk and chair we picked out together—the office has more in it than the rest of the house. It’s a little depressing.

  "You will never use those," I say, gesturing at the box of brand new pots and pans, "will you?"

  "I did try and tell you that, sweetheart. You weren't listening. And—I quote—‘I can always cook for you.’"

  "Well, she'll have to do that another day," Dane says, slamming the door behind him. "I've got Chinese for us tonight."

  I shake off the intensity of Atticus's look and grab three plates. Filling mine and Atti's is easy—I scoop a large portion of rice, top it with the pepper beef and add a little shrimp lo mein and General Tsao's chicken, then hand him his plate.

  Dane is watching us, his gaze hawk-sharp as I make my plate and sit down on the couch. Atticus offers me a beer, and I shake my head.

  It’s when he starts picking broccoli off the side of my plate where I’ve pushed it that Dane finally drops his fork. “Seriously? Will someone tell me what the hell is going on between you?”

  I open my mouth, but Atticus beats me to it. “It’s still none of your business. She’s my assistant.”

  Dane stares at his best friend like he’s sprouted a second head. “You really expect me to believe that? You’re different around her—you’re like this with Nik.”

  Atticus flinches.

  I look up, annoyed. "Does it occur to you that it's none of your business? That your interference might not actually be wanted in this situation."

  Dane smirks. "Without that interference, you would be waiting tables."

  "Dane," Atticus growls.

  I shift, my head cocked as I stare at him. "I get it. You’re a good friend, Dane—you really are. But at some point you have to trust that Atti knows what he's doing."

  "He's rebounding," Dane says bluntly. "I don't care what you think this, you need to see the truth—it's nothing more than a summer fuck."

  The words are cruel and shocking and fury makes me shake.

  Atticus starts to say something, but I cut him off. "Maybe, you idiot, that's all either of us want."

  I move without thinking, leaning over and pulling Atticus to me in a kiss. He tastes like beer and rice and soy sauce, and surprise makes him stiff as I flick my tongue in his mouth, licking at the roof of his mouth and sucking lightly on his tongue. His hand fists in my hair, and I feel a gush of heat between my legs. I make a low noise in the back of my throat.

  I'm panting when I pull away, my lips tender from the stubble on his face—he hasn't shaved in a few days. His eyes are heavy with desire, and I have a feeling if I don't leave now, I won't. So I give Dane a sarcastic smile and stand. "I'll see you tomorrow."

  Atticus grips my hand, and I flash him a quick smile before leaving.

  Atticus

  She kissed me. And holy hell, was it a kiss. I want to turn off the lights and replay it, the taste of her, the lightening quick flick of her tongue—all of it.

  "She still doesn't know about Nik, does she?"

  "She knows some of it. Enough."

  Dane is quiet, watching me, and I take a swallow of my beer, trying to wash away the taste of Avery in my mouth. "Why is this so important to you?"

  He frowns, an offended look on his face. "Are you really asking me that?"

  I think about then nod. "Yeah. I really am. Why do you dislike Avery?"

  He laughs, a disgusted, unamused noise. "I don't fucking care about her—she honestly seems like a nice kid. Pretty. I can see what the attraction is."

  I shift. The idea that Dane has noticed pisses me off.

  "She's dangerous, dude. I know you. You don't do anything halfway, and this girl is smart, pretty, and you could fall for her. You can't get involved with her because it would ruin your career, and you'd throw it away, because you’re a good guy like that—you care about people to a point that you don't worry about yourself."

  He pauses and shakes his head. "I'm no good at this."

  Dane rises and goes to the kitchen, rustling through the cabinets and freezer. He comes back with two shot glasses and a bottle of Southern Comfort. He splashes two glasses and shoves one at me.

  "I don't want to see what happened with Nik happen again. I don't want you to throw everything away for this girl. And, Atti—" His tone changes, becomes a little rougher, and I look at him. "Nik hasn't signed the papers. You know how she is—how she'd react if she knew about Avery."

  I swallow the shot, trying to pretend the chill I felt is from the liquor and not dread.

  "I just want you to be careful," Dane says. I nod, and he relaxes onto the couch. We're quiet for another few minutes. Its two shots later that Dane grins at me, his eyes glittering with amusement. "Is she as good a kisser as she looks?"

  I laugh and throw my chopsticks at him, and the tension vanishes.

  I'm almost asleep—Dane is passed out in the living room after we drank almost all of the SoCo.

  My phone rings, and I lean over to grab it. A picture of Nik in one of my UB shirts and nothing else. I groan—I'm in no mood to talk to my ex-wife.

  "What do you need, Nik?"

  "Where are you? I'm at Dane's and neither of y'all are here." She sounds a little drunk and a lot mad—something that amuses me for reasons I don't bother to assess.

  "I'm at my apartment. I told you I got one."

  "I wanted to see you." The pout is clear in her voice.. I know that pout.

  "You wanted to hook up," I correct. "Call Jacob."

  She hisses out a breath. "I told you it wasn't like that. God, Atticus, just let me explain."

  An image—a memory—flashes in my mind, and I almost throw up. I swallow hard, choking my bile down. "I think I know all I need to know, thanks. Look, you know where he keeps the spare. Let yourself in and sleep it off. Sign the damn papers while you’re there."

  She's calling me a bastard when I hang up.

  Chapter 9

  Avery

  "You have the worst hand writing in the history of ever."

  Atticus looks up, his hair falling in his eyes. "Oh, it's not that bad. You should see Dane's."

  "That'd mean working for him. No, thanks."

  My phone buzzes on the table, and he follows my gaze to it. "What's up?"

  "Amelia wants me to try on bridesmaids dresses."

  A slightly alarmed expression slips across his face, and he reaches up, impatiently brushing his hair back. He needs a haircut. My fingers itch to smooth the unruly hair for him, but I refrain. "Can I leave early Friday? I was gonna catch a r
ide with Jeff into Baton Rouge."

  Something fills his gaze, dark and almost angry. It startles me. "Sure. Leave whenever—take the day off, if you need."

  Something is wrong, and I don't think it's me cutting out of work. I start to reach out and touch him, but stop myself when he gives me a quick look.

  It's been almost two weeks since the move—since the kiss—and he hasn't touched me since. We work together, we laugh and have a good time, we eat and even drink occasionally. But he hasn't mentioned the kiss.

  I'm beginning to think he never will.

  I grab my phone, and thumb through my contacts to find Jeffery.

  "Hey, you still up for shopping and dinner on Friday?”

  "Of course—although, I'm a little surprised your boy isn't taking you."

  I glance at Atticus. He's stiff, his eyes trained on his open laptop, and I'm suddenly self-conscious. I stand, walking on to the balcony. "I told you it's not like that."

  Jeff makes a low noise in his throat. "Are you sure he knows that?"

  "Very. I'll meet y'all at the coffee shop around three."

  When I walk inside a few minutes later, Atticus ignores me. "Do you want a drink?" I ask, hesitating before I sit. He grunts, and I feel a little piece of me wilt.

  The rest of the day passes slowly. Atticus is furious, but he refuses to talk. I wade through his paper, transcribing it and making minute grammatical adjustments. It’s busy work, but it lets him Skype with a historian in Barbados, taking notes that I'll have to file later.

  Around five, I save the document and walk to the balcony, where he's talking on the phone. "Okay. Dinner is fine. I'll pick you up on Friday evening." He pauses, and then laughs, a slow buzz that messes with my head in the best way possible. "No, Nik. But I'll make reservations."

  Nik. The girl before me—the assistant who left him fucked up enough that he needed someone to clean up her mess.

  Irrational pain sears my chest, and I make a noise as I turn away. He twists, his eyes finding mine. He didn't know I was here, I can see it in his gaze. But he doesn't care, either. I take a deep breath, force a very fake smile—one I know he'll see through—hurry out of the apartment.

  He doesn't follow me.

  My loft is so fucking empty. It’s gnawing at me, the empty space, the repetitive music, the lack of laughter and warmth. I hate coming home.

  And how screwed up is that?

  I try working on an application for North Carolina’s graduate program for a few hours, but his conversation keeps playing on a loop, taunting me with the fact that Friday, he'll be with someone. Someone who isn't me.

  I don't need this. I don't even want it. I know better than this—it's too hard, too fucking painful to care.

  I didn't mean to. That's part of the problem—I've been avoiding it for years now. Boyfriends I'm not truly attracted to, avoiding intimacy, breaking it off before it got serious—it's all let me keep my distance.

  Kelly's commented on it before. I grab my phone.

  She answers on the second ring, "Oh, god, girl. You have the best timing. Seriously."

  "Do I want to know what was so awful that I just rescued you from?" I ask, grinning.

  "I'm at Daddy's country club. So no, you definitely don't want to know," she grumbles. I hear the click of a lighter and then a deep breath.

  "That bad?" I say, sympathetically.

  "Honey, you have no idea. Seriously. Don't worry about it, though. What's going on back home?"

  "Nothing. Working and working on grad school applications."

  "How is the job? Is he awful?"

  "Not exactly."

  I can almost see Kelly perk up, her cigarette half forgotten. "What aren't you telling me?"

  I'm quiet, and she laughs, a short, disbelieving laugh. "You like him. Oh my god, Avery!"

  "No, it's not like that. We're friendly, but we have to be—we work together."

  "Do you want to sleep with him?" she demands, and I sputter. Kelly is laughing, almost crowing, in my ear, more excited than she's been in a long time—much more excited than she ever was over my fraternity boys. She knew they didn't mean anything to me.

  "Why haven't you?"

  My phone buzzes, but I'm focused on her question. Why haven't I? Because I'm waiting on him to make a move? "Because it's a colossally stupid thing to do," I say quietly.

  Kelly groans, half laughing. "Avery, we're kids. We're about to be seniors—it's our last chance to do things that are colossally stupid. You have to quit thinking so much and just let go. See what happens."

  I get my heart broken—that's what happens when I let go and follow my idiotic heart. And last time, it shattered me.

  I change the subject, half listening as Kelly rambles about sexy boys back home and her asshole brother who refuses to set her up with the guy who fixes their cars. I laugh and say the right things at the right time, and when I hang up, Kelly is happy.

  There’s a text from him—three of them. I ignore them, because I can’t handle it, not right now.

  Not if I know that he’s still hung up on his ex, while I’m a little too hung up on him.

  I’m not so stupid I’m willing to do that to myself.

  Atticus

  She won’t answer my texts. I know why—she heard that damn conversation with Nik and she’s pissed. She has a right to be. But ignoring my texts?

  I glance at my phone again. I just want to know she’s okay—she raced out so fast I couldn’t explain, and I’m worried.

  There. I fucking admit it. I’m worried.

  I shouldn’t go over there. There are about a dozen reasons going to her place is a bad idea.

  So I text her. Avery might not be responding, but in the month we’ve worked together, I’ve never seen her far from her phone.

  Me: Meet me at Black Hole. I just want to explain.

  She doesn’t respond, but I grab my keys and head out the door.

  The Black Hole is, for lack of better word, a head trip. Glittery stars and planets hang from the ceiling, the bar top sparkles, and the waitresses wear microscopic uniforms that only vaguely resemble space suits.

  It’s cheesy and the music sucks, but the girls are hot and the drinks are cheap, so most people at UB are willing to forgive the cheese factor. It’s still early enough that it’s quiet when I arrive. I buy a pitcher and claim a booth that gives me a view of the door and the dance floor. And I wait.

  She doesn’t make it easy. I wait for over an hour and have just ordered a second pitcher when she walks in.

  She’s wearing a one shoulder green shirt and a white skirt so short it barely qualifies. Red heels that scream sex. I watch her scan the bar, watch the bar notice her. Her gaze is lazily disinterested, until it settles on me.

  Fuck. She stares at me, her eyes hot and hungry, a sexy smile turning her lips. With a deliberate swing of her hips, she stalks over to my table.

  A grinning redneck stops her once. Annoyance flickers in her eyes, and then she nods. Follows him to the bar and chats while they wait for shots.

  The redneck says something, and she smirks. Reaches past him to grab the salt and lime.

  My mouth goes dry as she squeeze the lime on her wrist, sprinkles salt over the juice.

  She throws the tequila back and lifts her wrist, licking the salty juice away with a quick flick of her tongue. The redneck’s gaze is heavy with desire, and I almost stand up. Almost. Avery leans over to murmur in his ear before leaving him behind, making her way to me.

  I stare at her as she slides into my booth. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips still wet from tequila; her eyes sparkle with amusement and fire.

  “I’m here. What do you want, Professor?”

  Irritation swamps me—she knows I don’t like it when she calls me that. “You made a friend over there.” I nod at the guy, who is still staring at her.

  “Jealous? You didn’t step in.”

  “You took care of yourself. I won’t get involved if you can take care of yourself.
But—” I lean toward her, my lips brushing her ear. “—If you can’t, don’t think for an instant I’d hesitate.”

  She shudders, and I want to push her back against the booth and kiss her, want to shove her skirt up and slide into her—

  I sit back, giving her—and me—room to breathe.

  "What do you want, Atticus?" she asks, looking away.

  That is the question. "I don't know."

  She twists and glares at me. "That's a cop out, and we both know it," she snaps.

  Avery starts to scoot out of the booth and I let her. I haven't seen this side of her, not directed at me. She's furious, all the soft sweetness gone. She's halfway across the bar when the redneck from before intercepts her. Avery's motions are sharp, her smile forced, and she tries to edge around him. His hand closes over her wrist, and I move without thinking.

  I'm across the bar in a few strides. Redneck is still holding her, his eyes laughing as he teases and tries to get her on the dance floor. She's stiff when I slide my arms around her waist, pulling her against me. Its a thousand kinds of crazy. But I do it anyway, nuzzle her hair. "Dance with me."

  The redneck frowns, and I want him to push. I want the excuse to fight him. But he's a good kid—he steps back and nods.

  "I was fine," she says, and I love the tremble in her voice as my hand slips under the silk top, finding skin even softer.

  "I wasn't," I say honestly.

  She doesn't resist as I tug her gently onto the dance floor. It's a fast song, but I'm not in the mood for that. I pull her against me, back to my front, and we sway to the music. Her hands come up over mine, her hair falling to the side as she tilts her neck and leans into my shoulder. It's a quiet surrender that makes my pulse spike. I lean down, kissing her neck, and her grip on my hands tightens. She can feel my erection, her ass shifting a little against me until I clamp down on her hips and hold her still. She laughs, a husky noise that makes me smile.