WHY COULDN’T WOMEN be more like men? David fumed. Men were simple, direct, easy to understand.
If he’d done something to piss off a male roommate he’d get a direct response. Say he’d left the place a mess, he’d expect something like, “Do your dishes, asshole.” That he could understand. Easy. Out in the open, clear communication.
But did Chelsea bother with anything clear and direct? No.
Did she come out and say, “Don’t have sex and walk out on me, asshole?” So he could apologize and they could move on? No. She did not.
She acted like the entire incident had never happened. She was cheerful as always, and treated him exactly like a platonic friend and roommate. The only change in their routine, the only way she let him know that she was pissed off with him, was that the cozy dinners had stopped. She said she was too busy getting ready for the big gig on Saturday to cook, but he knew better. She was punishing him, denying him food the way, he supposed, he was denying her sex.
Not that he could be sure of this, because she hadn’t said anything.
He should be jumping for joy. She’d got the message. He was up for casual sex, but none of that je t’aime stuff.
Except that now that she’d accepted there was nothing between them at all, getting her naked again was pretty much all he thought about. He was becoming embarrassingly obsessed with his roommate. He watched her move when they were home at the same time, which was rarely if either of them could help it, and he recalled the way her limbs had wrapped themselves around him in bed.
She’d taste a morsel of food, smile approvingly and all he could think about was her lips on his body.
Being in his own home was such torture he was certain that he was being punished. If only he’d never made up the stupid fiancée in the first place. Hell, if his company didn’t want him to be a VP without having a suitable partner, then maybe he didn’t want to be VP at this firm.
What business was it of his company’s whom he married or if he married?
Nothing more had been said about him being made a VP in any case, and he didn’t think he could stand this arrangement much longer. He was going to have to find his own place. He’d made an agreement that Chelsea could stay in his town house, and he was going to stick to his promise, but he couldn’t stay here night after night and torture himself thinking of her lush body in the next room. A man could only take so much.
Saturday, while she was catering the wedding, he’d start looking for a short-term rental.
Even as the idea took hold he was conscious of a sinking feeling in his gut. He didn’t want to move out of his own place. He didn’t want to come home to an empty house, one that smelled of stale air instead of fantastic food.
They were nothing to each other, so why did the sight of her engagement ring in his key dish annoy him every time he saw it there?
Friday night, when after a tough day at work when it seemed like Macabee had spent a lot of time with clients and none whatsoever getting ready to retire, he came home to a town house that smelled like heaven where there was nothing for him to eat.
The sight of the diamond sparkling all alone in his key dish added the final insult to his mood.
“Why don’t you wear that ring I got you?” he snapped when he stomped into the kitchen.
Chelsea looked up from piping some kind of filling into tiny little tomatoes. A smudge of flour decorated her cheek and he wanted to sweep her off her feet and drag her into the bedroom so badly it physically hurt him to stand still.
“I only wear that ring when we’re going to see people from your firm.”
“What if you bumped into one of the wives at the grocery store? Or saw Piers in the street or something?”
“I’d say hello. And if they asked why I wasn’t wearing my engagement ring I’d explain that I’m working and I didn’t want to get it dirty.” She was so cheerful it set his teeth on edge. She also looked like she was getting plenty of sleep, which made one of them.
He watched her in glowering silence for a full minute. Then he said, “Guess I’ll go out and grab a burger for dinner.” He sounded like a grouchy three-year-old and knew it. What was wrong with him?
Chelsea didn’t bat an eye. “I can make you a sandwich if you wait a few minutes.”
He was being a pig and she didn’t call him on it. And she had her big day tomorrow. “Have you had dinner?”
“No time. I’ve got so much to do for the wedding. I want everything to be perfect.”
“It will be, but you have to eat. Why don’t I get takeout for two?”
She filled a few more tomatoes. “That would be great, thanks.”
“Thai okay?”
“Anything.” He got the feeling she was barely listening.
He called for Thai food and went and showered and changed. But when the food arrived, she was in the middle of something and too busy to eat. “Put mine in the fridge, will you? I’ll have it later.”
So he took his lonely plate of takeout upstairs and into his bedroom so as not to bother her, and flipped on the TV. He hated eating in his bedroom. He didn’t like crumbs and spills getting on the bed and the smell of food that seemed to linger. He should have eaten dinner out, but he’d wanted to make sure she had a meal. Fool.
When he took himself to bed at midnight, she was still at it.
“Hope it goes well tomorrow,” he said, realizing he meant it. She’d worked so hard, he wanted her to achieve her dream.
A distracted smile greeted him. “Thanks. I’ve hired a bartender who conveniently owns a van and hired two waitresses and a kitchen helper. I’ve done everything ahead that I possibly can. Everything else I have to do tomorrow.” She put a hand to her heart. “I so badly need for this to go well.”
It wasn’t only so she could impress the wedding planner, he realized, but for her own confidence.
He was suddenly filled with warmth and tenderness for this woman. “You’ll do great,” he said. Then he looked around the kitchen. “What can I do to help?”
“Nothing. You’ve done so much already, lending me this kitchen and giving me a place to stay.” She met his gaze frankly for the first time since they’d slept together the other night. “I’ve rented the café and there’s an apartment above it. I’ll be moving out next week.”
And just like that, his conviction that it was a terrible idea for them to continue sharing his place was gone. His mouth opened and words he’d had no intention of saying spilled out. “But you can’t move out. We have an agreement.”
Her smile was sweet and a little sad around the edges. “I’ll still be your fiancée whenever you need me to be, don’t worry. But I think it will be better for both of us if I don’t live here. Don’t you?”
Now that she was actually doing the direct-communication thing, he realized he didn’t like it at all. What was he supposed to say? Admit that he was confused as hell?
“I… There’s no need.”
“I think there is.” She wiped her hands on a damp towel.
“If you’re talking about the other night, it was just two friends getting extra friendly.”
She nailed him with her gaze, so clear he felt that she could see right through him. “Really, David? Is that all it was?”
He gulped. If he’d been wearing a tie he’d have loosened it. “Sure. It happened, it was fun. Felt great. No reason to make a big deal about it.”
“Then let me ask you one question.”
He didn’t like her tone and was wary as he answered, “What?”
“If it was no big deal and felt so great, then why haven’t we done it again?”
He swallowed, felt like a spider was stuck in his throat and trying to crawl up. “I don’t know. You’ve been busy. I’ve been busy.”
She shook her head and looked at him almost as though she felt sorry for him. “I don’t think that’s the reason at all.”
“Yeah? Then what is?”
She turned her shapely back to him. “You figure it out.”