Suzy
The plan to spend the weekend relaxing at Carlson’s was a disastrous bust. I tell myself I don’t care. He lied to me. Lied about who he was this whole time. Over and over the deceits wheel in my head, a nonstop roll of callous make-believe.
Everyone in that gorgeous home knew who Carlson really was except me, his “woman.”
Why? Why would any man deemphasize his value to impress a woman? Isn’t it normally the other way around? I was already impressed, not with his success but with him, his ethics and devotion, his kindheartedness and supportive nature. Did he think I was some sort of opportunistic gold-digger only out for monetary and material gain, so he played down who he was? That must’ve been it. The thought has me fuming even more.
I might make a latte above minimum wage, have to work full-time to put myself through school part-time, and drive a twenty-year-old clunker with the gearshift stuck on stubborn, but I’ve always made my own way and taken care of myself. I don’t need to ride on his status or his expertly prepared vegan meals, even if they were the best I ever had.
Carlson was the best I ever had.
That’s the honest, pitiful, carnitas taco worthy truth.
I fucking love you, okay?
How could he claim to love me when he’s been hiding who he was from me?
Reluctantly admitting to myself my focus is shot, I scoot my secondhand tablet aside. I’d left my laptop in my backpack at Carlson’s. At some point I’d have to retrieve it or send him a text to bring it to the office. At my request, Gemma brought me straight back to my apartment yesterday. She didn’t have a lot to say other than to persistently encourage me to not give up on Carlson, or maybe it was because I was too busy sobbing to hear. I didn’t want to put her in the middle, but I’m afraid that was exactly what happened.
Carlson was right about one thing. I don’t need him. My days will go on. And my job at HC – if he allows it. He’s not the vindictive or petty type, so I don’t see him purposely threatening my position, notwithstanding the debacle that was our relationship.
Mom always claimed that after she lost Kaia’s father, the love of her life, every subsequent man she met was compared to him. None of them could. She settled, but she knew deep in her heart he was the one. Like mother, like daughter.
I just want Carlson. Always have and probably always will. His gentle, thoughtful ways. The special and devoted way he made me feel. His persistence to make us work.
The jerk.
He doesn’t need me either. What would he do with someone still struggling to finish school at twenty-four? With my last year being so demanding, he’s not going to wait around for me forever.
A rogue tear escapes and I angrily swipe it away. Screw him. So what if it takes me thirty years and menopause to finish school? I don’t need him. He can keep his lies and his meatless loaf.
On a sniff, I slope to the side of my bed to dig my earbuds out of the bedside drawer.
Only it’s empty.
Frowning, I lean over further, my searching hand reaching all the way deep.
Nothing but imitation wood and dust. And old crumbs. Yuck.
Oh, shit! We’ve been burglarized.
I leap out of bed and sprint for the door. “Ty!” I’m shouting before I have it wrenched open. “Ty! We’ve been robbed!” My fist bangs repeatedly on his bedroom. “Ty, get up.”
Displeased shuffling and muttering penetrate the barrier. My roommate throws open his bedroom, standing with one hand on the knob and bleary eyes. Shabby boxers hang low on his lean hips, his hair a riot of unruly radicals. “The hell, woman?” Negligent fingers scratch at his naked and tatted torso. “You horny or something?”
“We’ve been burglarized,” I screech in panic. “It’s gone. My stuff is gone!”
“What?” The sleep-hazy eyes narrow on me, brain still clearly grooving with unicorns. “What’s gone?”
“My earbuds. Sleep mask. Lotion. Spare car key.” I mentally rummage through my drawer. “The snack size cookies. Everything!”
“You think someone busted in here for your cookies?” Half-lidded eyes roll. “Your old man took them. That big dude,” he explains at my bafflement. “The one that kept coming over with food.”
“Carlson?” I shake my head, completely perplexed. “Why would he take my things?”
The giant yawn is accompanied by a shoulder jolt. Never mind it’s almost noon. “I dunno. I thought you knew.”
“You just let him take my stuff?” Utterly incredulous, I gape at him. “Just like that?”
“He said you needed your things while at his place, I just assumed you told him to take them. You did tell me you were going to be there all weekend.” He squints at me. “Why’re you home anyway?”
“To eat my cookies,” I snap and whirl back to my room. The slam of my door doesn’t make me feel better. “Carlson. Always Carlson,” I gabble to no one. Excess energy propels my agitated feet from one end of the small space to the other.
So he’s a liar and a thief.
I should’ve known about his klepto tendencies when he helped himself to everything in Mr. Hawkes’s kitchen
Snatching up my phone from the mattress, my fingers race over the screen.
Why did you take my things?
The response comes within seconds.
Grunt.
My chin drops. He actually texted the word grunt as a reply.
No way. No way would I let him get away with this atrocity. How dare he pilfer my cookies?
I’ll give him a real reason to grunt.
~~~~~
The hard, agitated whacks against Carlson’s door make my knuckles throb. “I know you’re in there,” I holler, not giving a raining shit who hears. “Open up!”
“It’s open!” comes the deep boom from within.
I don’t hesitate but fling open the barricade and barge right in. “Where’s my stuff?” Why lower my voice when I’m just growing into it? I brake in the vacant living room. That mammoth thief is nowhere in sight. “You’re lucky I didn’t call the cops.”
With my smarting fists perched on my hips, I scan the empty space.
Did he make a run for it? I’ve seen with my own eyes the man can take off like no one’s business. Those envious long legs can’t run from my wrath, though.
“Sebastian. Carlson. You better get your thieving ass out here this second.”
Mild footsteps approach from the direction of the kitchen.
“What’s all that shouting about?” The rich yet calm voice arrives before the rest of him. “It’s about time you got home.” Light brows crease at my mute gape. “What?”
He didn’t. No, he didn’t bring out the big guns.
The black apron. He knows freaking well that dark, buttery soft cloth on him drives me wild. Too short straps have the top of the thing nearly reaching his collarbone, while the hem grazes high on his thighs. Being several sizes too small, the fabric stretches across a large expanse of chest, but he didn’t stop there. No, he didn’t.
From the looks of those lengthy, muscled legs, large feet, and corded smooth shoulders peeking from under the straps, he’s got nothing else on.
I never thought I’d be jealous of a smock.
Get it together, Suzy. You can take him. Naked or otherwise.
Gulp.
I can really use that sleep mask right now.
Feigning nonchalance if it chokes me, I fold my arms on my chest. “What are you doing?”
He holds up a potato. I hadn’t even noticed it. All I saw was skin dusted with fair hair and tight sinews that left me panting stupid over parts strategically covered.
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
Deliberately, my gaze leisurely scrolls down the expanse of long, delicious body to the vegetable he’s exhibiting. “I don’t think I want to know.”
The scowl nearly succeeds in peeling the potato. “You’re late,” he chides. “I’ve been slaving over the hot stove for hours.”
There goes that riddle he likes to toss my way. “I don’t know what you’re talking about and I don’t care. I’m here for my stuff.”
Completely ignoring my demand, he makes an impatient gesture. “Lunch is going to burn, so excuse me.”
He swivels and strides back to the kitchen.
I swear my tongue hit the hardwood.
Fine glutes contract and ripple firmly as he strides away.
I admit it. I openly ogle him without shame until he disappears. How can I not? I’m only human with no lust-fighting superpowers. Where are the dollar bills when I need them? Lure Thunder has nothing on Carlson.
My heart is about to surge right out of my chest. On a fortifying breath, I plow after him.
The closer to the kitchen I get, the more my mouth waters. Not only for Carlson, but the heavenly scent of something fresh out of the oven.
He’s definitely not playing fair.
“Whatever you’re up to, it’s not going to work,” I declare as soon as I’m in the toasty kitchen. Oh my God, that juicy seasoned chicken looks positively scrumptious. “Where are my things, Carlson?”
“Where they belong,” he says without taking his eyes off the task of basting the bird.
Deciding to acknowledge the pink elephant – well, it’s not pink, but it does have a long trunk - I say with a smirk, “You always cook naked on weekends?”
“Not naked,” he refutes. “That would be unsanitary. Lunch will be ready in twenty.”