by M. Mabie
She fired back, “I can tell you’re attracted to me. Okay? I can tell. Your signals aren’t all that covert. But I’m not interested in a relationship. Not one with you or anyone else.” She felt my attraction, and that didn’t bother me. What did grate on my nerves was how she automatically assumed she knew what I wanted. I wasn’t even sure about that yet.
I fired back. “But if I had a girlfriend, you’d be on board? You’d be attracted to me—or us?”
She cocked her head to the side. “Maybe I would.”
I thought she’d kick me out, but she didn’t so I pressed on. “What do you get out of it?”
Her frustration grew, and she threw her hands up into the air, aggravation spraying onto every molecule in the room. “It’s none of your business,” she huffed. “Now start moving boxes or go.” There it was. I hit her limit.
I’d told myself that I was only there to help. Now there she was annoyed, not thankful.
I swallowed down the urge to spar and started moving boxes, dutifully keeping my mouth shut.
It was a whole new challenge.
Every time we passed each other, I could smell her perfume. She smelled different than I remembered from before.
Every time I followed her, I looked at her ass in those pants. I wasn’t about to apologize for that. The bending over I skipped. Even I knew my own boundaries, and I was already on thin ice.
It didn’t take that long to get her possessions into the rooms in which they belonged. I carried one of the last boxes into the master bedroom and noticed her staring at a bed, a small twin frame and mattress, leaning against the wall like in the spare room.
I’d be calling those movers on her behalf.
“What company did you use for the move? Do you want me to help you switch those? I noticed they put the king in the spare room.” I said as I placed a box labeled shoes down near the walk in. “I think these are the shoes you’re looking for, too.”
“Thanks, and no. The beds are in the right rooms.”
What the fuck?
Surely I misunderstood her. “You sleep on that?”
“That? That’s a four-thousand-dollar mattress. I’d hardly call it that?”
“I haven’t slept in a bed that damn small since I was eight. You’ve got to be kidding.” Who in the hell would choose to sleep in a twin bed when they had a king down the hall?
“Well, that’s my bed. It’s big enough for me.”
I wonder how you fit all those other people on it with you?
TWELVE
PAST
NORA—Friday, June 27, 2008
I bet he was thinking about how I fuck people on my tiny bed.
He didn’t ask, thankfully, so I didn’t mention that I typically didn’t entertain in my home, and on the few occasions when I did, it was always in my spare room. Sometimes I’d sleep with them, but most of the time I’d find my way back to my bed.
It wasn’t the sleeping with someone I didn’t like. It was the sleeping in a great big bed by myself that felt sad. Even though I didn’t have anything to feel sad about; my life was mostly how I’d wanted it.
I was where I wanted to be in terms of my career. I didn’t want for anything. When I wanted to enjoy some company, I knew how to find it.
It was all I needed.
That’s why it was so hard to have good friendships, personal ones, with people who didn’t understand the preferences I had.
Sure, I had many acquaintances, but none who’d ever guess what I liked in the bedroom. Socially, in my smallish network, almost everyone I associated with knew I was into plural activities because they were, too.
I never had to deal with any of those questions, and once again, I regretted having told him that night at the party. Honestly, seeing how intense and alpha male he appeared, I thought it would put him off.
And in some ways I think it did, but he was persistent. I would give him that.
It hadn’t taken long to get the boxes organized, and I appreciated the help seeing how much we’d accomplished. Most of the large furniture in the living room belonged there. Only some of the new bedroom pieces and shelves needed to be assembled.
With my bed like it was, I’d wait until the next day to tackle it, and decided I’d sleep on the couch for another night.
I’d been there for almost a week already. What was one more night?
Besides, it’s a comfy couch. I’d just bought it over the weekend, having decided to donate my old one when I was told it wouldn’t fit in the moving truck, and the store had been nice enough to deliver it Monday.
Other than that piece of furniture, it had been me and my suitcases.
There hadn’t been any reason to buy many groceries yet. I had nothing to cook with since all of my dishes and pans were packed in the move.
In hindsight, I should have overnighted a few boxes, but managed. I’d remember that for the next move.
My fucking toe still throbbed, and when I looked down to check it, I noticed it was swelling, and the toe beside it was turning purple too.
If I wanted to be any use the next day, I’d need to take it easy for the rest of the night. At least I had a bottle of wine, which should have been nice and cold by then. But where the fuck were my glasses?
“How’s the toe?” he asked, giving up on the conversation about the bed when I didn’t bother responding any more than I had.
I shrugged. “It still sucks.”
Then things clicked in my mind, and I remembered the wine was still in the fucking freezer. I’d made that mistake before. Fuck. It was going to be everywhere if it froze.
I quickly hobbled out of the room and limped to the kitchen as fast as I could, hoping it wasn’t too late, with Reagan right behind me.
“Slow down. You’re going to fall,” he told me.
“Shut up. My wine is going to explode,” I returned.
Was he ever not telling me what to do or asking me questions?
“I already moved it.” I heard as I opened the freezer door to the side by side and saw that it wasn’t there. “It was chilled when I got ice for your foot. I didn’t want you to have a mess.”
Damn. I supposed he could speak without the inquisition or instruction.
Why did I always assume the worst about him?
I could ease up.
He was right. A little.
I needed to relax, take a load off, and he had helped me.
I extended an earned olive branch. “Thank you. Would you like a glass?”
Immediately, I noticed how good being nice to him felt, and I watched a very calm smile appear on his clean-shaven face. He had the beginning of two perfect laugh lines and a dimple on one side.
Reagan Warren wasn’t so bad.
Hell, he wasn’t bad—at all—in my fantasies.
“Do you know where your glasses and corkscrew are?” He motioned to a few boxes in the room. I glanced around trying to remember.
He had me. I didn’t know.
“No,” I said defeated. God, I was striking out left and right.
What would I have done if he hadn’t heard me throwing a tantrum after murdering my big toe? I would only be a third of the way through box-ageddon, with wine all over my freezer. Alone.
It could have been worse than simply no glasses or corkscrew.
He started to look around the room at the descriptions labeled on the cardboard, but I had a lot of kitchen stuff. Most I’d never even used.
It was hard to cook for one, especially when you’re using a cookbook. I need to find a cookbook for singles, I thought and silently added it to my to-do list.
He gave up looking quickly.
“I have stuff. Let’s go to my place,” he offered.
He didn’t have the puffed up, all-powerful thing going on and I really needed a glass of wine. I’d just have to ask him enough questions so that he didn’t have a chance to turn the conversation on me.
If I had to, but first I’d try something a little more direct.
“Sure, I need the wine, but try not to talk too fucking much.”
He tipped his head back and chuckled—which felt like flint sparking inside me—and grabbed his jacket, putting it over his arm as he pulled the key out of his pants pocket.
Not that I was trying to notice, but I definitely saw something in the way the fabric strained against whatever he had in his pants.
Was he hard?
I diverted my attention. I knew better than to think like that.
He ran a pretend zipper across his lips and raised a challenging eyebrow as he nodded for the door.
It made me laugh, not a lot, but just enough that it slipped out. The silent treatment was handsome on him. When he wasn’t being a jackass he was damn charming.
I held the bottle in my hand, grabbed my small purse and walked to the door. Opening it, I allowed him to go through first.
I shut the door and locked it, and he still hadn’t spoken a word, which seemed like a new record.
Then I looked down the hall.
God, it was long.
I gazed up at him, but he stood there and waited for me to go first.
“Last one, huh?”
He gave me a crooked, cocky smile.
“Of course it is,” I mumbled under my breath.
He flicked his arm and adjusted the jacket, then in one swift motion lifted me behind the knees, up into his arms.
Instinctively, my free arm went around his neck.
If my foot felt better, I would have surely protested.
If it wasn’t such a long way down the hall.
If he hadn’t held me so tight that I’d never even considered him dropping me.
If any of those things were different, I definitely would have protested.
But all of them were true.
I knew how to be nice. Professional even. I’d just have to turn that on when he was around. I’d have to keep my wits about me. Remember the boundaries.
We were too different, but we could be neighbors. Good neighbors, if we could get along.
Although I thought it was fruitless, I’d try ignoring my attraction to him.
He still didn’t speak, not all the way down the hall. So that didn’t exactly help. I liked him more when he shut up.
When we got to his door, he made like he was going to put me down, and looked at me expectantly for permission first. His eyes were almost mahogany with reflective amber streaks around the insides of them. I couldn’t help myself for noticing while I was that close.
“Yeah, I...I’m good,” I said.
Reagan gently placed me on my feet, and I stood by his side as he unlocked and opened his door. He held it open for me, so I passed under his arm with my bottle of wine in tow—my small purse wrapped around my wrist—and kept walking until I saw his kitchen.
I heard the door close and noticed a lot of the same features of my apartment, only his was on a much grander scale. Instead of one step dividing the room, his living room sunk down three. He had an L-shaped island where I had a smaller straight one.
It was immaculate and quite spacious. Maybe I’d have to think about getting an end unit if they didn’t all fill up too fast.
I felt him tug the wine out of my hand as he passed, and he slid the wristlet off my arm. He moved so quickly, so precisely. Then, he was in front of me, stretching out of arms reach to set the purse and glass bottle down on his counter’s surface.
Suddenly, I was in his arms again, and he walked us back to a wall. I didn’t have time to react like I should have. I didn’t tell him to stop. Off guard, I was almost willing him to be quick before my sensibilities caught up.
“What are you doing?” I asked softly. Thoughts of how I’d imagined him doing that very same thing rampant in my mind. His arms wrapped me up in a tight embrace, one of his hands deliciously on my ass, the other flexed across my back.
He only shook his head. Still no words.
My feet weren’t even touching the ground, so there wasn’t any use in trying to get down. Again, he’d lifted me with little effort.
My eyes were higher than his at my new vantage. Steadfast and deliberate, he pressed my back against the wall, and instead of feeling angry or annoyed, I felt my pulse quicken and my mouth dry. My arms lay across his shoulders, and my hands clung to each other behind his head.
I asked again, “Reagan, what are you doing?”
He shook his head again and for the first time, I wanted him to talk.
He hadn’t asked me if this was okay. Although, strangely it was. But he’d seemed so normal, almost cooperative before we left my place.
“Just talk,” I said barely under a shout. I liked the feeling of his body against mine, but I knew whatever he said could spoil it. It was best he got it out before I lost the battle with my curiosity.
Was he going to kiss me? Was I going to let him?
“You said not to start, and I didn’t. I know you don’t like answering any of my questions, but, then again, sometimes you do. I know you told me to shut up, but you just told me to speak. So forgive me if sometimes you send mixed signals, and I make you mad.” The way he spoke was low, and I almost felt his words more than heard them. His chest vibrated against my ribs. His hand flexed on my ass, and he groaned. Desire tightened inside me. “Don’t worry. We’ll get your foot up, pour you some wine, but first, you’re going to admit that you’re attracted to me.”
I swallowed.
Disadvantage gripped me, I wasn’t used to this. I didn’t know how to react. My love life might be strange, but I liked the predictability. The stability.
This was unstable, unexpected, and unpredictable.
But undeniably, I was attracted.
“I am attracted to you,” I admitted. I wasn’t going to let him feel like he’d won though. “Happy?”
He ran his nose along my jaw and groaned. I trembled.
“We’re in my place now, and if you want to leave, then go. But I won’t be anything other than myself here. I know you’ve said you’re not interested, but you are. So I’ll try to keep my hands to myself, but I don’t fucking like it.”
That statement made me curious, but at the same time, I needed some space. His eyes on me like that was too intense. His body pressed against mine was about to wreck my resolve. We wanted two very different things.
“Okay,” I agreed. “Please, put me down.”
Then he did, no argument.
He’s not going to kiss me?
I was a sexual creature. No wilting flower. I felt the chemistry and yearning when he held his body next to mine. Hell, I felt more than guessed what he had in his pants as he pressed me against the wall. Now I knew what I’d thought I saw had actually been tastefully hidden.
But he stopped and put me down. The second I told him to.
As much as he tried to come off as someone who was in charge, he never took more than I was willing to give, and when I said to, he’d take a step back.
Still, I warred with myself. I’d felt it. The edge of a tipping point where things were either going to escalate, or not.
If he didn’t want to kiss me then why make me admit that I was even attracted?
This man was a puzzle.
Again on my good foot, and dragging the lame one behind, I followed as he walked away. He rounded the island, and I decided space might not be so bad, and chose a stool at his bar on the opposite side.
I needed to say something. Anything. If I wasn’t going to argue with him about what had happened, I needed to break the ice.
“I like your apartment. Simple. Clean. Great style.” I was impressed. Everything was tasteful, well thought out. No clutter. No mess.
He leaned against the counter top, having retrieved two glasses and a corkscrew.
Glasses to the left of the range.
Corkscrew the drawer right below.
Then I noticed his jacket was still draped over his arm. How had it remained there through all of that? I guessed most things obeyed him.
&nbs
p; He wouldn’t like me, but something told me he already knew I wasn’t what he wanted. We both knew the facts. There was no mistaking we were both stubborn and firm in what we wanted or didn’t want for that matter.
He passed a glass over to me.
It was time to ask him some questions. I found my nerve, sat up straight and went all in.
“So what’s your deal? Why are you such a control freak?”
THIRTEEN
PAST
REAGAN—Friday, June 27, 2008
At the moment, my deal was that she wasn’t cracking. Not even a little. She was as stubborn as a mule, but so was I, so I couldn’t fault her for it. After she spoke, she took a long drink that emptied her first glass.
“You’re going to be busy if you only fill it half-full,” she said as she slid it back my way.
I topped it off and took my time trying to decide what a fair and honest answer to her question was.
I asked her a lot of things. No one ever said she couldn’t do the same.
I was happy to give her the truth because that’s what I’d expect from her.
Trust.
It was all about trust. So even though she adamantly said she didn’t want me, I’d continue showing her she could trust me.
“I like control because I like order. It gives me peace. So, most of the time, I try to take the lead when I want things to go my way. That’s how I am in business, and that’s how I am with people. If I want to know something, I ask. If I want to see them more, I work on that. I don’t ask permission for what I want. I earn it.”
She drew her glass back to her side of the bar and propped her foot on the stool beside her. I noticed she made sure her feet were clean first.
I went to the freezer and pulled out an ice pack. I’d been going to the gym more, and it was handy to keep a few around.
I smashed it around to soften it up for her and opened the drawer to wrap it in something that would be kinder to her skin than the cold blue plastic.
“And...” she prompted me to continue when I handed her the ice pack.
There wasn’t much more to it than what I’d said. “And I enjoy having control. Having a firm handle on things.”