Rose petals. Chocolate kisses were scattered across the floor and the bed.
The forgotten surprise I’d planned for Keke.
I stand there for a moment, staring at it all. My chest tightens. I’d spent hours setting this up before leaving, wanting to celebrate the proposal, our future, with my family.
Now it just looks pathetic.
Crossing the room, I open the mini fridge and grab the bottle of champagne I’d tucked inside, along with the small joint sitting beside it.
Popping the cork, I take a long sip straight from the bottle.
Keke is really pissing me off.
I’ve blocked her on everything but email, and now she’s using our Netflix account to communicate with me. I can’t even watch the new season ofNext Gen: New Orleansin peace.
Pulling up the camera app, I still have her login for the security cameras in the living room. There she is, sitting on the couch in the apartment I pay for, looking completely unbothered. I should’ve known she was cheating when she started turning the cameras off for a few hours every day. And the fact that I believed her when she said she “didn’t want footage of herself walking around naked in her own house”?
Also, when she said she “doesn’t believe in moving in together before marriage”? Yeah. Full of bull. That’s on me. Never again.
I could kick her out, but that would be cruel… right? Maybe I’ll just let the housing manager know she’s moving out after the holidays. She can enjoy a nice little eviction notice as a Christmas gift.
I’ve been sitting here for almost an hour, pretending to relax, but I keep glancing over my shoulder every few seconds. Now that I know I’ll have company this Christmas, I’m on high alert.
Thank God for having my own room here, because even with a broken heart, it’s hard to focus on being mad when that pretty face is in front of me.
She’s beautiful, with caramel-brown skin, a soft laugh, and that hourglass figure that should be a crime to have, even with an ugly ass Christmas sweater she got on.
When I asked her why she wasn’t spending the holidays with her family, I expected her to mention a boyfriend or some wild reason, maybe a late celebration or something dramatic.
But no. She’s alone.
And I don’t buy that for a second. Someone that pretty is never alone.
So, yeah, I did a little digging. Sutton Snow is a freelance artist, kind of underground. Private, quiet, but clearly obsessed with Christmas. Based on her reshares and posts, she’s been celebrating since October.
Great. Just what I need. A “Christmas is the best holiday ever” type of girl.
Dropping my phone onto my nightstand table, I sink deeper into my bed and let out a long sigh.
I close my eyes for a minute, telling myself it’s just a quick nap.
Just a minute, then I’ll deal with all of it.
The smellof bacon fills my nose, pulling me out of sleep. Maple syrup hits next, sweet and warm.
My eyes pop open.
I haven’t smelled this since I was little. My brother and Iris are on a healthy cleanse with all that nut stuff, so all they eat are smoothies right now. I am glad I don’t have their willpower. I love bacon too much for that.
Following the scent downstairs, I wander toward the kitchen. When I step up to the island, I freeze. Sutton is moving around the kitchen like she owns it, hips swaying slightly as she flips pancakes like she’s in a holiday commercial.
“You’re really making yourself at home,” I say, dropping onto one of the stools.
“I was hungry,” she replies without looking back. “There’s a kitchen. I bought food. So…”
Fair point.
“So,” I say, leaning on the counter, “you’re here for”—I look at my wrist, pretending to have a watch just to be an ass—“about ten hours, not counting sleep, before you leave. You got plans?”
