No, no, no, no!
“Cohen?” My voice shakes, and I just don’t care.
“Maren.” He drags me off the counter, his dark eyes flickering with a thousand emotions I can’t pinpoint. “Damnit, go to bed.”
“Come to bed,” I counter, my voice attempting bravado but undermined by a crazy shake.
“No.” He shakes his head, a piece of dark hair falling in front of his eye. I want to push it away, but, though he’s been massaging my tits and ass for twenty minutes, I don’t feel like that’s within my rights.
Weird doesn’t begin to describe this all.
“I want you there,” I say, finally letting my fists fall from his shirt. The material is puckered in an exploded star pattern where my hands had balled it tight.
“I want to be there,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face roughly. “But I can’t.”
I wrap my arms around my waist and nod, my eyes brimming with tears. What the hell did I just do? What did I screw up? And why, why, do I always manage to screw it up with the good guys, the ones I should hold onto tight?
“I get it,” I say, testing my first step back with my heel. I’ll take three of four careful steps backward before I whirl around and sprint to my room.
His room
Fuck.
Fuck me.
Can tonight get any worse?
“Maren?” His voice interrupts me when my toes are into my third step back. I’m almost gone.
“Yeah?” I don’t look at him because it’s hard enough to accept that I fucked up and he’s going to be gone. I don’t need to stare at what I’m losing.
“I want to get in that bed with you and…” He rolls his neck back on his shoulders, then stalks a few deliberate feet in my direction.
I’m a step and a half away from running to freedom, but I freeze ice-still in my tracks.
“I want to get in that bed with you,” he repeats, his mouth close to mine. Kissably close. “I want to. Good fucking God, Maren, I can’t even say what I want to do to you, but it’s every damn thing, and I can’t. I can’t while you’re with him.” He spits the pronoun, like even referencing Jason is too much for him. “I don’t want you to be some fuck…” He tips his mouth close to my ear, his hair tickling my cheek and says, “Though, make no mistake about it, I want to fuck you. Badly.”
I listen to the steady inhale and exhale of his breath, smell the salty bite of his skin, screw my eyes shut and wish I wasn’t such a heinous, loathsome coward, and then I turn on my heel and make good on my original plan.
I run away from Cohen, pound up the stairs, and slam the door loud enough that it should wake anyone, including my stupid boyfriend. Except he’s too sloshed to register the sound of his girlfriend escaping the arms of the man who’s going to steal her away.
I climb under the sheets that don’t, I decide finally, smell nearly enough like Cohen to satisfy me. I roll on my side and stuff a hand down low, rubbing with an intensity that’s ferocious and guilty. I want him, and I have no idea if our few minutes of stolen perfection in the kitchen got us closer to that goal or ruined my chances completely and forever.
“Cohen,” I groan, my voice so quiet, I’m not even positive I uttered the word I want to say every minute, every second.
When my body shakes and shudders with its final release, that’s the only thought I can register. Cohen. My Cohen.
I clamp one hand tight over my mouth and listen, hoping to hear him turn the doorknob and come into the room with me, but it doesn’t happen. He doesn’t read my mind, he doesn’t rip apart the ridiculous fears that hold me back. He goes to sleep in his guest room and leaves me alone in his huge bed with memories of the perfect heat of his lips on mine.
Torturer.
9 COHEN
A thousand times, I think about going into the room where Maren is sleeping, my t-shirt barely covering her sweet curves.
And a million times, my brain snaps and snarls at my hormones, insisting that it would be the dumbest idea ever. Which it would be.
What we did in the kitchen, what I said, what she said back, all that was bad enough. I need to get her out of my damn head, get all of them out of my damn house, and find a way to move on that doesn’t involve a girl who I work with on a daily basis and also happens to have a boyfriend.
Even if he is a fucking dickhole.
It’s not like I expected to have some incredible night on my shitty air mattress, but I guess I assumed I’d get more than a few minutes of sleep.
No such luck.
My body is rioting with need for Maren.
I loved being with Kensley, but it was never like this. I can’t get physically comfortable, and my mind sure as hell won’t shut down.
Like a middle-school kid, I take matters, ahem, into my own hands. When I’m done, I assume sleep will hit me, finally, but it’s not in the cards for me tonight. I’m now left with a feeling of half-fulfilled aggravation and a mind that’s wide awake and focused on the girl I can’t have.
It’s so stupid to even think of her.
I work with her. And she’s an amazing asset. There’s reason number one I need to keep my hands off.
Number two? He’s snoring in my office. Even if he is a total douche, he’s her damn boyfriend, and I shouldn’t be sinking to that level. There are plenty of unattached girls, so why am I screwing with one who has a boyfriend?
Third? I’ve known her for one day. One. Okay, maybe we’ve talked dozens of times, but that was mostly about furniture. And I get it felt like I knew her so much better than I did, but, the truth is, I just got out of a crazy emotional relationship built on my own hype, and I don’t need to construct a whole new one.
One day is not enough to get all physical with some girl. Even if her body curves in all the right ways. And her mouth tastes like sweet heaven. And the way she moans makes me harder and hornier than I ever imagined any single sound could.
All of that is physical rebound bullshit that I feel guilty as hell about.
What the fuck was I thinking backing her up against the counter while her boyfriend slept a few hundred feet away?
If I’m being honest, I was thinking that I wanted way more than I got in my kitchen. And if I give myself and extra shot of honesty, I’ll admit that I’m a dumbass for even thinking that way.
I’m up before the dawn, because I never went to sleep. I step out of the sliding glass doors and walk down to the sandy beach outside my house.
It hits me daily how lucky I am to have the ocean outside my house.
Though, the peace I usually get to enjoy is ruined by the ghost images of Maren walking with me on this sand, going too deep into that water, coming back into my house and my bed. So close to being the perfect scenario, and also so completely far.
I sit down, the wind whipping every cobwebbed, sticky thought out of my head, the crashing waves smoothing out my frayed nerves. I tilt my head back and draw the clean scent of ocean deep in my lungs.
“Hey.” A quiet voice shakes my pre-dawn calm.
“Hey.” I crane my neck and take a long look. A little piece of me is sad to see she’s back in her own clothes, my white t-shirt discarded. “Wanna sit?” I pat the sand at my side, and she plunks down, wringing her hands in front of her.
“Um, I’m…uh, I’m so sorry, I just want you to know that,” she says, her words gulping out nervously. “Last night? I was such a mess. I never drink that much. Lame excuse, right? So damn lame. Fuck. I know this sucks. I feel like a huge ass. For even saying this.”
She stops, and I can’t help it. I laugh. “Maren?”
“Yeah?” She looks at me, all eager blue eyes behind the dark streaks of hair whipping in the wind.
“Shut up, okay?” I smile, and her smile is shaky, but it’s there. “Just…I know what you mean. And don’t worry. We were both off our asses last night. Let’s just forget it, okay?”
Her eyes go wide, like she’s shocked, and I feel a deep, stupid regret.
“Yeah. Forget it,” she echoes uncertainly.
I want to say anything to break the tension, but Jason’s voice breaks through our awkward pause before I get a chance to. “Hey, Maren, get your ass moving! I’m golfing with my boss at noon, and I need a shower and some espresso. C’mon!”
We turn at the same time to look at the empty deck. Jason is already gone, back in the house. My house.
God, I want to beat the shit out of this guy so bad.
“Well, my prince awaits,” Maren deadpans, rolling her pretty eyes. “I hope it won’t…you know…be weird? Between us?”
“Weird,” I scoff, like it would be crazy to imagine us feeling weird about being nothing more than coworkers, now that we’ve kissed like we wanted to tear each other’s clothes off and have sex on my kitchen counter. “Why would it be weird? It’s gonna be just fine. It’s all gonna be fine.” I can’t believe how cool and collected my voice sounds.
I’m such a good liar, I’m actually scaring the shit out of myself.
“Cool.” She stands and brushes the sand off her shorts with the flats of her hands, and she never makes eye contact. “Well, thank you so much for letting me sleep in your bed. And…um, thanks for the eggs.”
The eggs.
The fucking eggs.
This is what it’s come to?
I’m standing by her, my hand an inch from her waist, my mouth a half foot from hers, the words I need to say on the tip of my tongue, when Jason bursts back out on the porch.
“Jesus, Maren, are you deaf? I. Have. A. Meeting. With. My. Boss! Quit screwing around with Carlos and let’s get a move on!”
She looks at me, her eyes begging me to ignore her douchebag boyfriend.
I have a feeling I’m going to wind up beating the shit out of this tool at some point, but now isn’t the time.
“You don’t have to go with him,” I say, and her eyes have this hopeful gleam. “I have another dozen eggs.” It’s a joke. Clearly a joke.
But my timing sucks.
Her face falls and she shakes her head. “I have to go. Of course. I need to. But thank you. So much.”
She turns and flees like a deer running from a hunter, the way she did last night in the kitchen, and my heart has the same nasty emptiness it had last night.
I trudge through the sand and stop short on my deck. I can see them all through the sliding glass doors. Maren is rooting through her purse, and Jason has a hand on Ally’s waist, his head is bent close to hers, and he has one finger pressed to his lips, in the classic ‘shh’ signal. When Maren turns around, he lets go of Ally and pulls Maren close, kissing her on the mouth.
Where I kissed her last night.
The way I kissed her last night.
Ally looks like she’s contemplating murder. I bet she and I could be mistaken for twins based on our expressions alone.
He finally pulls back from Maren and shoots a look of triumph out to me, like he knew I’d be watching like some damn tool. Maren presses her fingers to her lips.
My heart shreds. I feel a distinct, shitty hollowness that I have no clue how to begin filling.
If I had a cyanide capsule in one of my teeth like James Bond, I’d so crack that bitch open and end my misery right now.
10 MAREN
I stare at the caller id on my office phone, like I have every day for the last week when Rodriguez Furniture shows up on it. Debating whether or not to answer, like I even have a choice. It’s an internal call. It could be anyone in the company.
Still, I half hope it is Cohen, and half hope it isn’t.
So far, it hasn’t been.
The store he works at is having a massive tent sale, so I tell myself that’s why he hasn’t called at all. He’s just busy. Though, I know more than likely, it’s because I was basically naked with him, begging him to sleep with me that night at his house, and then I left with Jason in the morning.
“This is Maren,” I say, clutching the phone with my sweaty, nervous palm.
“Hey, Maren, it’s Cohen.”
Cohen. Sweet, sweet Cohen. I feel like I can taste his delectable mouth through the phone.
“Hey. What can I do for you? Do you need the count for the rugs that are being shipped to you guys tomorrow? I heard you were running low. I figured you’d be calling about it; actually, I probably should have already called you or sent over the specifics. Sorry about that.” Sorry about so many things…
“Rugs? Yeah. Um, how many are we getting? I’ll make a note for Gen, you know how she loves specifics.”
“Right,” I say. I tap away at my computer, making mistakes with every keystroke because I can’t keep my hand from shaking. This is absurd. It’s just Cohen. Cohen who smells like the surf first thing in the morning. Whose kisses were so surprising, so passionate and animalistic that I’m wet every time I think of them. I’ve got to stop this. I clear my throat, dislodging the lump that’s stuck there because my body aches for Cohen to be near me. “Okay, so it looks like you should be getting fifty of the Moroccan Trelis rugs, twenty-five shags in assorted colors, ten Chevrons, and ten florals.”
Silence. Except for the sound of his breathing. I close my eyes for a few seconds, and picture the way that vein on the right side of his neck pulses with each breath. How can a single detail be so incredibly sexy?
“Cohen?” I clutch the phone tighter. “Did you get that?”
“Huh? Yep. Ten florals.” His words are tight and clipped.
“That’s it. They’ll be there within a few days. You should have enough in stock until they arrive. If not, let me know.” I blush when I remember how close I came to going through with my hare-brained plan to screw the order up, just so I’d be sure to get Cohen on the line to help untangle it all. Pathetic.
His voice gets soft on me, making me have to catch my breath. “Will do. Thanks, Maren, fixer of all things.”
I feel the warm blush that always burns my skin when he compliments me creep up my neck and stain my cheeks. Not that I need a ‘thank you’ or his sweet words anyway. Because I love when I make things easier for Cohen. I love feeling needed in a positive way, not in the way that my father needs me around.
But that’s exactly the point: I like to keep things easy for Cohen.
Me in his life, wouldn’t be that. Cohen wants something completely uncomplicated, and I work for his family, which makes things uppercase COMPLICATED. I just have to accept that and remember that I’d be a hiccup in the well-oiled machine that is Cohen Rodriguez’s routine. He would lose patience with me for having to sneak out in the mornings to make sure dad hadn’t passed out somewhere in the house, and that he had groceries in the fridge, and that he hadn’t gotten his electric cut.
Hell, it annoys me that I cancel plans, cut corners, and tell lies on a daily basis on the off chance that my dad will spring up, his debilitating alcoholism magically cured by my martyrdom, and I can start living a full, normal life again.
If I can remember how to do that, of course.
It’s so easy with Jason because he doesn’t care much about any of that stuff. If I’m honest, Jason doesn’t care much about me. The fact that his eyes have been glued to Ally’s rack every single second I’ve seen them in the same space proved that implicitly. And it’s fine, because I don’t expect anything else from him. Jason fits my temporary state perfectly: he’s not the kind of guy you marry. He’s the kind of guy you waste time with. That’s exactly what I need right now, when things are so damn up in the air.
And he’s fine. He’s not the love of my life, he’s not so amazing, but I like his company most of the time, and we do generally have a pretty good time. He’s ridiculously good in bed. I can’t imagine sex getting better than it is with Jason—though Cohen’s kisses tell me I may be dead wrong about that theory.
“Oh, before you go. This is going to sound weird, but I also ordered a seven-by-ten teal and gray area rug. I, um, I sort of thought it would look great in your living room,” I say. It sounds ridiculous now that I�
�ve said it outloud. Who am I to pick home furnishings for him? “It’s gorgeous, but if you hate it, I’m sure you could sell it in the store anyway.”
“You picked out a rug for me? That’s—”
“Creepy?” I stifle a hysterically panicked laugh.
I am a colossal, ridiculous idiot.
“Cool. I was going to say ‘cool.’” His voice sounds anything but cool. The way it rasps against my ears is magma hot, and it burns right through me the exact way his hands and kisses did in his kitchen the other night. “Thank you, Maren.”
I close my eyes and wish I was brave enough. To tell him that I think I could make him so happy. Someday. If he can wait, we might be amazing together.
But that’s the stupidest thought I’ve had yet. Cohen is right for a life I don’t live. And, even though I hate to admit it, I may never live that life. I care about him. I want more for him. So I need to stop being an ass and picturing our life together, because that’s just asking for an ocean of heartache.
I keep it short and platonic. The way it should be.
“No problem. We’ll talk soon.”
“Bye, Maren.”
It’s fine that it hurts to let go. That little jab of pain reminds me to keep my distance.
***
“Dad? You home?” I ask it, though I know he is. Of course he is, where else does he go? I set the bag of groceries on the counter and turn to preheat the oven. It’s meatloaf night.
“Mare, is that you?” My dad’s voice booms down the narrow hall. I close my eyes and suck in a quick breath and hold it, trying to put myself in the right frame of mind before I see him.
The frame of mind that isn’t full of bitter resentment.
“Pop, I’m in the kitchen,” I say, stacking the cans of vegetables neatly in the pantry. Dad probably won’t eat them, though he should. I stopped wasting money on the fresh ones since I caught him feeding his meals to the neighbor’s schnauzer or hiding them in the bottom of the garbage can, covered up with plenty of napkins—just like a guilty child would do.
Which is exactly what my father feels like to me.
Depths Page 10