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Sebastian
She meant ten last night, you fucked-up asshole.
I berate myself yet again as I drag myself into our apartment at noon.
It’s been hours since I tasted Matilda’s lips at the ice cream shop and almost as long since I’ve heard a word from her.
My current case broke wide open last night after we arrested a man we believed was involved in the murder.
He was ready, willing and incredibly eager to share what he knew because he was scared shitless of his friends who had taken out an innocent bystander in their anger-fueled rampage to get revenge for some guy hitting on one of their girlfriends a week ago.
Once we had the names of everyone involved, we set out to track them down. It took all night, but by day’s break, we had two confessions and a third ready to talk in exchange for a reduced sentence.
I handed the entire mess over to Darrell before I left the station.
It’s his to sort through. I need to sleep.
I toss my keys on the table as I look toward the open door of Matilda’s bedroom.
I know she’s not here.
When I sent her a text message last night to tell her that I wouldn’t be joining her in bed, she replied that she understood.
She also said she would be meeting her sister for brunch to go over some preliminary wedding plans.
I curse under my breath as I survey the empty apartment.
The silence is deafening. The vase of pink roses sitting next to the white ones I bought a few days ago is a surprising sight.
I stalk toward them, my gaze stuck on a small pink envelope on the table near the vase.
I pick it up.
Tilly Baker is written across the front of it in blue ink along with our address.
It’s been opened, so I slide my hand in but come up empty.
I push the roses apart, looking for any sign of a card. When I don’t find one, I drop the envelope at my feet and gaze at her open bedroom door.
I want to know who the fuck the other flowers are from.
My strides are long and brisk as I cross the apartment. I stop just outside her bedroom.
I don’t have the right.
I can get into her bed and fall asleep in her sheets, but I don’t have the right to go through her things searching for a card.
I lean both hands against the wall on either side of the doorframe.
I could do this the easy way and take the envelope to the flower shop that’s listed on the back of it. I’d flash my badge, tell them I needed to know who sent them and I’d have that name within ten seconds.
It’s wrong on so many levels.
I close my eyes against the urge.
The chime of an incoming text message yanks me back to the moment. I look down at my phone.
Hillary: Where are you?
Sebastian: Why? You ok?
Hillary: Can I see you?
Another message comes in before I have a chance to reply that I’m dead tired and headed to bed.
Hillary: I really need to talk to you. Please.
We’ve talked and talked until she’s run out of words. I thumb out a quick response.
Sebastian: This afternoon at 4.
I shake my head when I see that she’s typing a response.
Hillary: Can it be sooner?
I scrub my hand over the back of my neck when I feel tension take hold of me.
Sebastian: Now at the Roasting Point Café on Broadway and Seventy-Fourth?
I start the walk toward my room for a quick change of clothes. I already know what her response will be.
Giving up sleep is a sacrifice I have to make.
I made a commitment to her and I’m a man of my word. I won’t let her down. I can’t.
***
“You’re a million miles away again,” Matilda says as walks into our apartment.
It’s late. The lights are off, darkness took over the city hours ago, but I haven’t been able to drag myself from this spot by the window.
I’ve been here since I got back from meeting Hillary.
We talked about the same thing we always do. It’s the one thing that binds us together.
Pain.
“I’m right here,” I answer as I look over at her. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get here last night.”
“It’s fine.” She flicks on a lamp near the sofa. The soft light is enough to illuminate her beautiful face. “Your work is important.”
“You’re more important,” I say under my breath.
She doesn’t hear me, or if she does, she ignores my words. “Have you eaten yet?”
I look back at the lights of the city. “I met someone earlier. I had a coffee and a bagel.”
“The same someone you met the other morning? It was a woman, yes?”
“Yes,” I answer briskly.
She closes the distance between us with short, sure steps. Her fingers land on one of the pink roses. She stares down at them. “I’m tired. I think I’ll call it a night.”
I have no right to ask, but I’ve been staring at that bouquet for hours. “Where did those come from?”
“Boyd.”
What the fuck?
“Your ex-boyfriend?” I don’t know why the hell I’m asking for clarification.
She scratches the side of her nose. “He’s the only Boyd I know.”
“Why is he sending you flowers, Matilda?”
Her eyes search mine. “If you want an answer to that, I’ll want an answer to who the person is that you’ve been meeting.”
Fair enough.
I fist my hands to quell the need to reach out and grab her. I want to fuck her against this window until she screams my name. I want every person in this city, and one asshole back in San Francisco to know that she’s mine.
I want her to be mine.
The bastard sent her pink roses. Her favorite is white.
I ask the question again. “Why did he send them?”
“Because he’s lonely?” She shrugs. “He wants to come out here to visit me. I told him to save his money. I’m not interested.”
She goes on as she leans down to inhale their fragrance, “I almost tossed the flowers in the trash when they were delivered this morning.”
“Why didn’t you?”
She glances at me before her gaze falls on the pink roses. “It’s not their fault Boyd is a jerk.”
I huff out a laugh. “I’m not fucking the woman I met earlier, Matilda. I’m not fucking anyone but you.”
She looks to me, holding my gaze as her lips twitch with a smile. “That’s all I wanted to know.”
She wears jealousy like a badge and I just got a flash of it.
I fucking loved it.
