My mouth dropped open. “Oh, that’s nice. Thanks for the lovely flattery. It’s really too bad we can’t all be as pretty as you, Matthew.”
His face scrunched up when I said it. “Please don’t ever call me Matthew.”
My eyes lit up, “Oh! So, what you’re saying is…you don’t like being called Matthew?”
“I didn’t say that. It just sounds wrong coming from you. My mother is the only one who calls me that and—“
“What? What is it, Matthew?”
He hung the dishtowel on the oven handle and shook his head, smiling slightly, but not because he thought it was funny. “Nothin’.”
“No, really, Matthew, I’d love to hear why—”
He took a step toward me and gripped my arms, looking me dead in the eye, “Stop. I don’t want you to call me that because I don’t want to think of my mother—when I’m with you.”
“Oh.” It was all I could think to say.
His hands remained on my arms, strong and warm, but not too tight. He looked down at my body, and for the first time today, I realized that the only thing that stood between me and him was the thin cotton of my t-shirt. His grip loosened, and his hands slowly traveled up my arms and behind my neck, his eyes exploring my face and his thumbs tracing my jawline with one of them landing on my bottom lip, gently pulling it down, forcing them to part ever so slightly.
He wanted me. It hadn’t occurred to me before this moment. And the fact that he did stirred something in me. The warmth of his touch traveled from my lips to my toes, causing an almost imperceptible gasp to cross my lips.
Then, just as quickly as he grabbed me, he let me go and took a step back, shaking himself out of whatever it was that just took hold of him.
He didn’t stop staring at me, though. “Like I said, I should go. Where’s your men’s room?”
I pointed. “It’s over there. But it’s a woman’s room.”
He didn’t laugh. He always laughed when I tried to be funny. But he didn’t laugh this time. He just walked away.
“But—”
He turned around, “Yeah?”
“Um—I know that you’ve already done a lot by coming here, but—uh—I’m just wondering—“
“Spit it out, Sunshine.”
And, he’s back.
“The thing is, I can’t sleep. And I really, really need to sleep. You said it yourself, I look like hell. I feel that way too. Would you mind just staying here until I fall asleep? I promise I’ll repay you somehow.”
What the hell was wrong with me? I don’t ask people for things. Never. Why was I doing it now? With him? Must be the exhaustion setting in.
His shoulders slouched but only a little. “I’m sorry I said that. You do not look like hell, Chloe.” He said my name again. “You look the opposite of hell right now. You look fucking incredible. And yeah, I’ll stay, but only on one condition.”
“What’s your condition?”
One corner of his mouth turned up in a sly grin as he slowly looked my entire body down and back up. “You need to put a sweatshirt on.”
CHAPTER TEN
~Matt~
Present Day
I sure as hell hoped she was putting a sweatshirt on. Seeing her in that t-shirt damn near destroyed me. Not that I didn’t enjoy a pair of beautiful nipples hard as top hats staring in my direction; it’s just difficult to control impulses when it’s happening. And that was one impulse I refused to act upon. Especially with someone who was with my friend hours before.
Supposedly.
God, those lips, though. So full and soft. What I wouldn’t give to have those lips on mine. And that body? So petite with curves in all the right places. I bet I could lift her like she was nothing. I bet I could maneuver her any way I wanted if we ever did the things my mind wouldn’t let me stop thinking about doing.
I splashed cold water on my face and looked at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Tension lined my face. I needed to get a fucking grip.
Why was her mirror so smudged? I took the hand towel, and just as I was about to wipe the smudge away, I noticed that the smudge was actually letters. F.M.L.
Fuck my life? An unexpected thing to see from someone like her. But the more time I spent with this girl, the more I realized that she’s not the tough, heartless bitch everyone thought she was. Maybe she’s just lost. A little hopeless. And she’s a hell of a lot more fragile than she lets on, that’s for damn sure. In fact, it’s pretty obvious that being harsh and cold was her shield. A shield she seemed to put down around me, which was what confused me most.
Most people take one look at me, see the height, the tats, and the cannons, and the first thing that registers in their eyes is trepidation. My own mother says I look “mean.” Even when I’m not trying to intimidate someone, it just happens. But not with Pink. She had no fear.
I kind of liked that.
Fuck me, I kind of liked her.
I took a look at the various “girly” items scattered across her countertop. Hairspray. A straightening iron. Some little paintbrush-looking things. A black pencil. Damn, this girl was messy.
I grabbed the pencil and pressed my index finger to the pointy end. It left a dark black mark. It would work perfectly. I brought it to the mirror and started writing.
When I came out to the living room, she was already on the couch. In a sweatshirt, thank God.
“Here,” she said, handing me the remote as I sat down next to her. The TV had already been turned on to the Roku homepage. “Put on whatever you want.”
I took the remote and started clicking through Netflix options. She took a throw pillow and laid down, her head resting on the pillow and her bare feet pressing up against the jeans of my outer thigh. I wondered if the subtle touch had the same effect on her that it had on me.
“Can I ask you something?” I blurted.
“Sure.”
“What happened last night? With Logan?”
She stayed silent, but the way her body tensed, the way she removed her feet from my leg and curled her knees closer to her chest, spoke volumes. I almost kicked myself for asking, but I had to know.
“I’m not judging,” I continued. “I think you’re fun as hell, actually. And pretty cool too. But Logan’s my friend, and he’s real torn up about it. Maybe we could figure it out together—”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Matt,” she mumbled into her pillow. “Please.”
Shit, she wasn’t going to spill it. And I wouldn’t force it, knowing that it would just feed into whatever complex she had about ulterior motives. She didn’t seem to comprehend the fact that sometimes people just do things for others for the simple fact that they need help. That the only thing needed in return is the feeling they get when they help someone.
I knew if I pushed the issue, she’d close herself off, thinking that I was only here to get answers. And even though answers would be a bonus, that wasn’t the real reason I came today. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that she was the reason I was here. Just her. Her laugh. Her touch. Her jokes. The way she scrunches up her nose when she’s irritated. The way she chews her food ridiculously longer than the general population does. Her fucking blond and pink hair. And right now. The way her face began to relax and her lips lightly parted, in this very moment, while she fell asleep.
And then it hit me that all these months that I’ve been pushing the thought of her to the back of my mind was in vain. Just one look at her this morning was all it took for the urge to be near her to come tumbling back. No matter how wrong it was to feel this way, considering her history with Logan, and no matter how much she didn’t reciprocate the feeling, I had an undeniable thing for this girl.
Which meant I was royally fucked.
I had to go. I didn’t want to contribute to this disaster-waiting-to-happen any longer. She appeared to be sleeping already anyway. I turned the TV off. Then I stood up, walked around the coffee table, and crouched down so that I was eye-level to her
. Before I realized what I was doing, my rough fingers brushed her soft, silky hair behind her ear, and I found myself savoring the contrast of it. Savoring the sight of her smooth, milky white skin. Savoring her scent, a mix of soap and peaches.
“Chloe,” I whispered softly.
“Mmm.” Her eyes remained closed.
“I need you to promise me something.”
“Hmm,” she mumbled in response.
“Just do what’s right, okay?”
Her ice-blue eyes opened then but only a little. Just far enough to make eye contact and touch my soul for only a moment. She indolently sighed and closed them again, falling back into her slumber. I stood up, went to grab my coat, and left her apartment, closing the door gently behind me.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
~Chloe~
Present Day
Facebook. Me. Later.
I hadn’t washed Matt’s message off my bathroom mirror yet, even though it’d been almost a week. I hadn’t tried to contact him either, even though his message on my mirror said he wanted me to.
I didn’t like the way he just came over when I called. Didn’t like that he thought enough of me to bring me food. Didn’t like the way he made me feel safe and unjudged. I didn’t like the way my skin became fire when he touched me or the way he asked me to do what’s right like he had no doubt that I was actually capable of it. I definitely didn’t like how he turned a desperate, irreparable morning into something good.
I hated it.
Only—I didn’t. When I woke up alone later that night, I found that I actually wanted more of it. More of him. More of the way I feel when I’m around him. And that’s what scared me. Because I know how this goes. This thing that happens between men and women. This is how it starts. And I also know how it ends.
That’s what I hated.
Having all that stuff I crave will never be worth the pain of betrayal and heartbreak that comes when you get even a tiny fragment of it. I don’t even know why I tried with Logan when I knew how it would end. That’s a mistake I won’t make again. It’s better to remain numb.
If you don’t have a heart, it won’t get broken.
Come to think of it, numb is exactly how Logan felt toward me. And I toward him. Maybe that’s why I became so infatuated with him. Well, that and the phenomenal sex. Maybe that’s why I thought we were so perfect for each other. Maybe that’s why I didn’t want to let him go. Because good sex and a lack of anything substantial was what I needed. And that’s exactly what he gave me.
So much for that.
Luciano’s was packed tonight. All three of our private VIP rooms were booked all night, and word had it that a marriage proposal would be taking place in one of them. Not an uncommon thing; I’d been involved in several over the last two years.
I didn’t think I’d have to be involved in tonight’s proposal until Lauren cornered me in the kitchen while I placed table eighteen’s dinner plates on a serving tray.
“Chloe!” With bouncing brown curls, she rushed toward me. “I have to go. Like, now. My sitter just called, and Braxton has a fever of 104.2. He has been puking non-stop. Would you mind taking over a couple of tables for me? I only have two more that need coverage. Please say yes,” she pleaded. “If I don’t get someone to take over my tables before I go, I might get fired. And I really need this job.”
I was already swamped and had customers waiting longer than they should’ve been for their meals. Part of me was irritated with her because being a single mom with a four-year-old seemed to always be her excuse for getting out of work early or not coming into work at the last-minute. Part of me wondered if she was even telling the truth.
The other part of me knew I could use the extra tips, and if she her son really did have that high of a fever, he needed to get some medical attention.
“Yeah, absolutely. What do you need?”
“Oh, thank God. Thank you, Chloe! I owe you one.”
This wasn’t the first time I had covered for her. She owed me many.
“I need to get these plates out, Lauren. What tables do you need covered? Tell me quick.”
“Okay, table four got their food about ten minutes ago. You might want to check up on them soon because I haven’t had a chance to yet. VIP room three is the proposal. I just finished clearing their plates. He’s going to propose after you bring out the dessert menu.” She handed me a menu that looked nothing like the Luciano’s dessert menu or any other menu that we have here in the restaurant.
“What’s this?” I grabbed it and read the title on the cover.
Lifetime of Happiness
Menu
I opened it to find a list of “menu items” like love, commitment, and communication along with paragraphs that I would assume describe how each item fits into their relationship. It was an interesting concept, but I didn’t have time to read through it.
“Cute.” I closed it up, stuck it in my waiter pouch, and continued placing dinner plates on the serving tray. “So, I’m supposed to act like this is a dessert menu?”
“Yep. He’ll excuse himself when you get there so that she can read it alone. You give her the menu to read and leave her to read it. Then he’ll come back and propose a few minutes later when he knows she’s read it all.”
“Got it,” I said, lifting the serving tray and placing it on my shoulder.
“Thanks, Chloe,” she said, as I pushed open the kitchen door.
I nodded, “No problem. Just take care of your kid.”
After serving table eighteen and checking on table four, I headed to VIP room three. Our VIP rooms were the best in town, offering riverside views out of floor-to-ceiling windows, private music selections, and instead of just being in a separate area of a larger space, they were actual intimate rooms that could be closed off to the rest of the restaurant just by shutting the door.
I knocked three times, then waited five “Mississippis” before entering. I learned the hard way that when you don’t wait a few extra seconds, you may barge into something intimate, hence embarrassing everyone involved, which in-turn leaves me with a shitty tip.
I’ve had my fair share of uncomfortable moments in these VIP rooms, and I’ve seen everything from make-out sessions to full-on sexual interactions. I thought I had seen it all. But nothing prepared me for what I walked into tonight.
I saw him first. Before her. Baby blue eyes gaped at me from the table as I entered the room, shock registering in them as I came to an immediate halt at the sight of his exquisite face. His sandy blond hair was the same medium length I remembered. In fact, nothing about him had changed.
She turned around to face me. She’d dyed her hair. It used to be blond like mine. Now dark cherry red, it contrasted her porcelain skin perfectly, bringing out her beauty even more than I remembered.
“Chloe,” she whispered, turning whiter than she already was.
Nobody said anything else, but I was sure they could hear my heart hammering its way out of my rib cage, providing the beat for the Frank Sinatra tune that flowed out of the room’s speaker system. My glare went from her, to him, to the menu I was supposed to give them. The menu he would be using tonight to propose to her. Propose marriage. Because he wanted to make her his wife.
“What the FUCK?” I yelled, probably louder than I should have. “Are you kidding me?”
I wanted to scream no! I wanted to scream get out of my restaurant! I wanted to take the damn “happy life” menu and tell Ryan what a stupid idea it was, and that my sister would never marry him. I wanted to make them as miserable as they made me.
But a voice in the back of my mind said do what’s right. And I realized that nothing I said to them would matter. It never did before. It never would. So I turned around and walked out, slamming the door violently behind me.
CHAPTER TWELVE
~Chloe~
Age 12
The press called my parents’ deaths “romantic.” I call the press “morbid” for talking about it that way.
My father had surprised my mother with a hot air balloon ride for their twentieth wedding anniversary. As the balloon attempted to land, and as the grounds crew attempted to anchor it, a mooring cable got wrapped around the gas cylinder, starting a fire in the basket. As the pilot jumped out, the grounds crew fled, and before the pilot could help my mom and dad out of the basket, a gust of wind caused the balloon to rise rapidly into the air while the basket quickly became engulfed in flames.
With my parents still inside, it continued to rise and continued to burn. To escape the fire, my parents locked hands, and jumped to their deaths. But not before one last kiss. Hence the so-called “romantic” death. Shortly after, the basket burned up, and the balloon fell to the ground.
Someone had caught the entire thing on video, and the news stations repeated the footage of their jump for days.
Until something more interesting came along.
I was twelve years old and home alone when the two officers and the middle-aged woman in black pants and a purple blouse came to my door to tell me the news of their deaths.
“Are you Chloe McCarthy?” the woman asked.
“Yes.”
“Chloe, I’m Davila Arnold, and this is Officer Banks and Officer Fowler. May we come in, please?”
“My parents said to never let anyone in the house when they’re not home.” Little did I know that it probably wasn’t the best idea in the world to divulge that I was home alone.
“Your parents have taught you well, Chloe. Is there anyone here with you?” the woman asked, peeking past me into the foyer.
“That’s none of your business,” I said, closing the door, locking it, and running to our cordless house phone. I tried Mom’s cell, but there was no answer. Then I tried Dad’s cell and again, no answer. These people at the door creeped me out, and I didn’t know what to do. Finally, I tried Brynn’s cell.
“Hello?” she answered.
The Fragile Line: Part One (The Fine Line #2) Page 6