What I wouldn’t give for a good mattress pounding. All thehormones are wreaking havoc on my stomach, but boy are they spicing up my southern hemisphere.
With a sigh, I tip to one side, intending to wallow in my misery for a few seconds before heading up to bed. I was so confident I could wait Titus out, but the guy must have an iron will when it comes to cake. He licked the freaking plate clean for God’s sake. I thought for sure…
I don’t realize I fell asleep—to thoughts of my elusive boss no less—until I jerk awake. It’s still dark in the house, but there’s the tiniest hint of sunlight warming the sky through the windows looking over the mountains.
I stretch, trying to work out any kinks a few hours on the couch earned me. But when I shift, I get tangled up in soft, plush fabric.
“Damn robe.”
I try to fight my way loose, but there’s way more of it than I remember. Lifting one edge, I squint at the blanket covering my body. A blanket I’ve never seen before. A blanket that smells like a man.
I bring it to my nose, taking a better sniff.
An expensive man.
An expensive man who snuck downstairs in the middle of the night to cover me up.
I lift my head to peer across the house.
An expensive man who snuck downstairs in the middle of the night to cover me up and steal the rest of my cake.
6
Titus
Inever should have gone downstairs the other night. I should have just left Mariah the way she was and suffered through an evening without cake. Instead, I’ve suffered through days of knowing the cameras around my house don’t come close to doing the chef haunting my home justice.
I knew she was pretty—even the lowest-grade gas station system couldn’t hide that—but I didn’t know she would stop me in my tracks. Leave me standing over her like a lecher, unable to do anything but stare at the woman soundly sleeping on the couch I’ve never even sat on.
And now, instead of working like I should be, I’m sitting here in my office chair, staring at her the same way. At least there’s no chance she’ll wake up and catch me this time.
I study her as she moves around the kitchen, assembling what I know will be another life-altering meal. She spent most of yesterday in her robe—making me worry she might be getting sick—but this morning she came down in jeans and a sweater, her wavy blonde hair swept back into a loose ponytail. And while she’s dressed, she still has a pinched look to her face. Like she’s not feeling great.
I don’t like it. Don’t like that she thinks she hasto work even when she feels bad. I’m a grown man. I can figure out how to feed myself. I’ve been doing it for years. Maybe not well, but I’ve never gone hungry.
As she’s working at the stove, Mariah keeps pausing, pulling in a deep breath before taking a sip of her tea and going back to work. I stand up and start to pace, going back and forth in front of the screen because I can’t seem to make myself look away.
I should go down there. Tell her to go back to bed.
Only she won’t go back to bed. She’ll take one look at me and start asking questions. Even if she doesn’t say them out loud, I’ll know they’re there, racing through her brain, desperate to come out.
And I’ll be faced with the memory of a nightmare I do my best to hide from. To forget. It’s an impossible task, but I still try. The loss I suffered is still too painful to face, even after all this time.
I rub my chest, trying to ease the ache already building there as Mariah suddenly goes still, her eyes widening. A second later, she takes off running, headed straight for the half bath just off the kitchen.
An amount of familiarity strikes me, hitting from the same place I avoid. A memory of a time I had everything.
Mariah slowly walks back, wiping the back of one hand over her mouth before going to the sink to wash up.
For the first time, I’m glad for the way I live. The state I let my house devolve into. Because it’s the reason there was no hand soap for her to use in the bathroom. Probably not a towel either.
If she’d been able to freshen up behind the closed door, I might not start to connect the dots. Might not suspect it’s not an illness causing her suffering.
Is it possible Mariah’s pregnant?
I step closer, like I’ll be able to tell by looking at her. I won’t. God knows I’ve looked at her enough times that if she was visibly pregnant, I would have noticed.
Mariah finishes up my breakfast, and I track her path asshe carries it up to the door. The last few days her knocking hasn’t been as quiet as it was initially. Now she bangs one side of her fist against the panel, shooting it a glare before walking away.
