by Karen Ferry
While Garrett talks to the guy from the airport, I watch him from the corner of my eye. My curiosity is piqued, and I want to get to know him better. Safiro was a fountain of information as usual, but the way the tabloids write about the recluse that is otherwise known as the renowned Italian cook, Garrett Thompson, doesn’t really seem to fit the man in front of me. While he’s still virtually a stranger, I haven’t seen the confident player that he’s made out to be – that is, when he ever finds the chance to get out of his restaurant downtown.
Mysterious. Interesting. Kind of the way I like them.
I snort when that thought enters my mind. Garrett and I will never happen. For one thing, I’ll be leaving New York in a few months; and for another, he’s a lot older than me. Somehow, I doubt the lines in the corners of his eyes are laugh lines; I can see it now that his hair is pulled away from his face – hello, man bun! – and I’d be a downright fool to get involved with him.
Still…we can become friends. I think. It would be particularly nice if that was possible seeing as I have to live with the guy for the next long while.
Dang it, I wish I could phone Emma now. At least then I’d be able to tell someone what I saw Garrett do earlier this afternoon. As I think back on walking in on him rubbing himself, I get warm all over, and I admonish my always present libido for not letting me off easily today. One would think that I’d had enough to last me a while after Morgan stayed the night, but – apparently not.
“Just a couple of rules.” Garrett’s voice pulls me back to the present, and I turn around as I hear him come closer.
“Yes?” I ask him. I try not to drool too much when I see the way his biceps bulge from carrying his heavy bags.
Focus, Suzy!
“Okay,” he starts and drops the bags near his walk-in closet. “First of all, we have to share the bathroom, so I hope you’re not one of those women who leaves a mess wherever you go. I can’t stand clutter.” He looks so serious, his mouth drawn down, and his voice holds a hint of annoyance.
I frown at him, but nod. “I’m not.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “Good.”
“And what’re the other rules you have?” I ask him when he continues to stare at me, a thoughtful look in his eyes. My throat feels parched, and I take another long sip of water.
“Just that we take turns cleaning the place properly every week, and that you let me know whenever your girlfriend plans to come over during the day. I’ll make myself scarce.”
“Hang on,” I interrupt him. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Sorry, my mistake.”
I shake my head. “No, I don’t. Morgan and I…we have an understanding.”
He remains quiet for a while, and the coldness has returned to his eyes. I don’t know why, but I hate seeing it there.
The silence draws out, and I’m not feeling so relaxed anymore.
“You see,” I start to blabber, twisting the cap on the bottle over and over again. “I’m single, and kind of confused about many things at the moment, and Morgan and I meet up from time to time, because we like sex, and we like each other, obviously, but we’re both bi and in need of – oh, god. Why am I telling you all this?” I start to pace back and forth, completely mortified at my outburst.
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” he replies drily. I chance a quick glance at him. He’s stock still, hands fisted at his sides, and I shrug as I try to mask my embarrassment.
“Well, I’m not ashamed of who I am, but sorry if it made you feel uncomfortable.” There’s a sinking feeling in my stomach. I’m afraid that if he’s one of those bigoted people I’ve met so many times over the years, I’m not sure I’ll be able to live with him.
I won’t hide who I am like I used to do back home. The very thought sickens me.
“Look, Suzy, it doesn’t matter to me whether you’re straight or bi, okay?” he mutters. I stop my pacing. “It’s your life. All I ask is that you let me know if you want to bring someone home if I’ve not already left for work. Can you do that?”
“Of course.” I stop pacing and face him once more. “That’s what roommates do, right?” I smile at him, yet remain unsure if he’s weirded out about my outburst. He doesn’t smile back, but at least he uncurls his fists and relaxes his stance once more.
“Good.” He picks up his bags and turns to the walk-in closet. “I’m going to unpack now, and then I’m going to the grocery store; I’ll fix us something to eat when I get back.”
He disappears from my view and I take a couple of steps to follow him, but then stop. I don’t want to disturb him.
“You don’t have to do that,” I call out to him.
“I’m a cook,” he yells back. “It’s what I do. End of discussion.” His tone of voice brooks no argument.
“Okie-dokie,” I whisper back.
Now what? I turn away and face the bar where I’ve left the newspaper Safiro gave me earlier. I straighten my back and walk closer to pick it up, close to dragging my feet.
While pole dancing is definitely out, I need a job, and fast, so I might as well spend some time going through the other available positions. I haven’t been able to find a job online that suits me so I might as well try the old-fashioned way.
Sighing, I grab a pen from my bag resting on the countertop, and then sit down; I open the first page, determined to get this task over and done with as soon as possible.
Someone out there must be in need of a new employee, right?
A bag of food lands on the counter right on top of my paper, and I yelp in surprise, heart pounding.
“Sorry,” Garrett mumbles. I look up to find him removing his leather jacket.
How did I not hear him come back?
“It’s okay. I guess I was lost in thought.” I sigh and slump back on my stool, sad that my job hunting has been in vain so far. It would seem that no one in this city seems to be looking for a waitress at the moment. Well, where the wages aren’t ridiculously low, that is.
“Job hunting?” he asks me, as he moves to unpack so much food that it seems there’s enough for an army. There’s chicken, bacon, some kind of pasta, green and red peppers, garlic, a loaf of garlic bread. Oh, and there’s white wine, too. Nice.
I pick up the pasta. “Yes. I need to find a job or I’ll have to leave NYC sooner than I thought. I don’t want that.”
His movements still. When I don’t get a reply back, I look up. I gasp when I see the furious gaze fixed on the newspaper, and I take in the ad his eyes seem fixed on. The paper may be upside down, but the words “POLE DANCER” aren’t exactly hard to read.
“What the fuck is that?” he growls. I swallow the lump in my throat. Even though I’d never planned on applying for something like that, his reaction is completely uncalled for. I don’t have to defend myself to this guy.
I put down the bag of pasta and cross my arms, straightening my back.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but it’s a possible job,” I quip.
His head snaps up.
“Out of the question,” he grunts. “You’re not going to do that.”
I blink, completely taken aback by his reaction.
What. The. Fuck? Where is this caveman coming from?
“Excuse me?” I lean forward in my seat, trying to stare him down, knowing full well that I’m failing miserably.
He crosses his arms, visibly tense.
“They’ll eat you alive at a place like that,” he grumbles.
“You don’t know me. You don’t have the right to tell me what to do.” I stand up and round the bar to get to him, completely invading his space. He doesn’t back down. I didn’t really expect him to, but it was worth a try.
I jab a finger in his chest as I crane my head, keeping my gaze on his.
“Listen, buddy, we’ve only just met, and if we are going to live together for the next few months, I think it’s only fair that I set some rules myself.”
His frown de
epens. “Is that so?” His voice has gone quiet, but there is an ominous sound to it that sends an unpleasant shiver down my spine.
I do my best to ignore it as I try to find my inner Wonder Woman.
“Yes! First of all, you’re not my parents, or my brother, or my boyfriend, so that doesn’t give you any right at all to decide anything for me. I’m a big girl. I do what I want when I want. Got it?”
He takes a small step forward, but I refuse to back down. I put my hands on my hips and inhale deeply.
“Now, you listen carefully to what I say next –” he begins. I don’t like the sound of that.
“Places like that?” He jerks his head at the offending paper. “They’re not for sweet, innocent girls like you.”
I open my mouth to interrupt him, but he continues, “Yes, you are innocent, babe, and there is no way in hell that I will allow you to work as a pole dancer. If you want a job, you’ll work at my restaurant; and if you turn out to be miserable at that, I’ll help you find one that suits you better. If you refuse to work for me…” He stops, and I frown when he doesn’t elaborate further. He blows out a breath and finally steps away. “Well, I know of somewhere else where you’ll be able to work for a much better salary, but where you won’t have to remove a single piece of your clothes.”
I sigh and rub my forehead, so tired all of a sudden. Outbursts like these are few and far between, and they always leave me feeling like crap.
“Okay, for your information, I wasn’t going to apply for that particular job, Garrett.”
He raises an eyebrow and I smirk at him. “That still doesn’t give you the right to make any decisions on my behalf.”
He frowns and I don’t like the calculating gleam in his eyes. Without saying more, he turns away from me and resumes unpacking the grocery bags.
Not knowing what to do now, I sit down and ask him, “Do you want some help with dinner?”
He stops, his head down, but his eyes lift to meet mine.
I raise my hands in the air when I notice the scepticism in them.
“Of course not,” I mutter. “You’re the cook, I get it. But will you at least let me open that bottle? I think I’m going to need more than one glass of wine to get me through the evening.”
Wordlessly, he hands me the wine before rummaging through a drawer to find the corkscrew. As I struggle a bit with the complicated contraption he just handed me, his lips twitch amusedly, but I’m determined to succeed, even if my muscles seem kind of useless against the cork.
“Do you need some help with that?” he finally asks me, hand outstretched. I quickly shake my head at him.
“No, thanks,” I puff a bit, putting all my weight into the damned thing. “I may look scrawny, but I’ve got some muscle on me.”
Inwardly, I cringe. I can’t help but overhearing the low “Liar” whispered from his mouth. I decide to ignore him, and at last the offending cork relents and the wine is ready to be consumed.
“You’re not scrawny,” Garrett says, a thoughtful look in his eyes.
I snort and roll my eyes at him. “Yeah, right, whatever you say.”
The sarcasm rolling off my tongue doesn’t hold him back.
“You’re not. You’re just…delicate. You remind me of a waif, actually.”
Completely taken by surprise from hearing those words from a man such as Garrett, I can’t do anything but stare at him, mouth hanging slightly open.
He chuckles and reaches his hand towards me. There’s a teasing glint in his eyes that I have not seen before, and I’m so intrigued by the man before me.
Who is he?
Tapping my chin twice with his index finger, he says, “Careful you don’t catch flies, babe. Now, save some of that wine, please. I need it for our dinner – Chicken Alfredo.”
Shutting my mouth immediately, feeling lightheaded and confused, I merely nod and then watch as he goes about his business. At least I’ll be able to admire the way his arse looks without him being aware of it.
Curiouser and curiouser…
I feel like I’m Alice about to fall down the rabbit hole. This day is the weirdest I’ve had in a long time. I’m so confused about this man and how he can go from hot to cold like that. I honestly don’t like it; but at the same time, I do.
I reach for the glass Garrett has poured for me and take a small sip.
Let the madness begin.
I CAN FEEL SUZY’S eyes on me as I prepare the vegetables for dinner.
It’s not uncomfortable, not really. Just very unusual.
I can’t remember the last time a woman watched me as I cooked – not in my own home, that is. I’m not sure what to make of it.
To break the silence, I ask gruffly, “So, Miss Suzy Christensen, where are you from?”
I look at her and wait for her to answer. There’s a puzzled look in her grey eyes.
“Didn’t you get most of my details from the agency that handled my lease?”
I tense up.
“I can’t remember,” I lie. When they sent the papers to me at rehab, I didn’t pay them that much attention. I was just relieved to find a tenant on such short notice.
“Oh. Well, I’m from Denmark, actually.”
I tilt my head at her. “So that explains the accent.”
She scrunches her nose at me, and I almost break out in a smile from the cuteness.
“Is it very horrible?” she asks me, twirling a strand of her blonde curls.
Shaking my head, I try to reassure her. “No. It’s not.”
She sighs, her lips lifting at the corners, and my eyes zoom in on the small birthmark at the corner of her upper lip.
“Good.”
Silence falls again, and I wrack my brain, trying to come up with a new topic. As I turn to wash my hands, though, it strikes me that music might work.
“Do you want to listen to some music while I cook?”
“That would be nice, yes.”
“Anything in particular that you like?”
Why do I even care?
“Oh, no, not really…”
I turn and raise my eyebrows at her. “Really?” I don’t believe her. She simply gives me a small smile.
“It’s true. As long as it’s not hip hop or rap, I’m not fussy.”
“Fair enough.”
I walk to the bookshelf where my outdated stereo system has a shelf to itself and pick up a CD with one of my favourite artists. Not only is he an incredible singer, but his voice is soothing and fits well with my task at hand.
I turn the music down a bit and then go back to my station behind the bar. I glance briefly at my roommate and find it interesting when I see her head tilted to the side, her eyes closed.
“Are you tired?” I tease her. She opens one eye, squinting at me.
“Hush. I love this song,” she whispers before shutting it once more.
I frown at her as I pick up my knife to cut the peppers in long slices.
“I’m surprised you know who he is,” I murmur, distracted. I bend down to find a cutting board.
“My mother…” She hesitates but I don’t dare take another look at her. I’m afraid if I do, she’ll clam up on me. I hear her inhale deeply and I straighten my back. I place the cutting board in front of me before turning away from her. It takes me a few minutes to get all the vegetables washed and cleaned up, and during that time, Suzy remains quiet.
Interesting.
I guess it’s not really my business, but I’d like to get to know the woman who I’ll be sharing my home with for the next little while.
“Is this a touchy subject?” I blurt out, keeping my focus on the familiar rhythm of the knife as I slice the vegetables.
“Oh, no. I guess not,” she answers. The vulnerable hint to her voice doesn’t go unnoticed.
“So?” I persist. “I don’t want to pry, but it would be nice to not be living with a total stranger.” Finally, I look up and smirk at her. She snorts, and nods once.
“Fair enough.
Well, my mother used to listen to Andrea Bocelli constantly while I was a teenager. I don’t know why, but I just came to love listening to him sing. I guess I have her to thank for that.”
“I’ve never met a woman of your age who enjoys opera,” I muse, secretly happy that she has surprised me again.
“Well, I’m not that keen on opera as such, but Bocelli is just…” She sighs. I chance a quick glance at her before fetching a bowl from the cupboard above the sink.
“Please, continue,” I urge her, grabbing the extra virgin olive oil and some seasoning.
“I can’t explain it properly.” She looks to the ceiling and shrugs. “His voice is just…comforting, while passionate at the same time. I’m always surprised by the feelings his singing brings out in me when I hear him. It’s as if his voice is able to draw out a part of me that I never knew existed, and I feel surprised yet relieved whenever that happens.”
I stop and lean on the bar, captivated by her account. I didn’t expect her to open up to me like that already. I open my mouth to tell her that it’s almost an exact mirror of how I feel when I turn to this singer, but I catch myself. I’m not one to open up to strangers – and definitely not women. I’m a bit rattled that this woman, who I have only known for twelve hours, has made me forget my rules already.
Fucking fool. I never forget my rules – and that’s rule number one.
Abruptly, I turn to the food once more, not voicing what my mind is practically screaming at me to say; but as if of their own accord, I can’t stop my eyes from glancing at her briefly.
Her face falls ever so slightly, no doubt disappointed with my lack of response, but I pretend to not see it.
“I told you I couldn’t explain it well,” she murmurs before she takes a sip of her wine.
Shrugging as if it’s no big deal, I try to smile at her. I know I’m failing, though.
“It’s alright. I just wasn’t expecting to hear something so deep coming from a young woman like you. I’m surprised.”
“I don’t think you’re able to have formed a true opinion about who I am, Garrett,” she counters. It gives me pause.
“Maybe not. But I’m good at reading people, and there isn’t much that surprises me anymore.”