WHENIGETHOME—about three hours later than I’d like, because I can’t exactly skip out on a reception in my honor—my apartment’s dark and the only ones stirring are the cats. I shed my tux jacket, loosen my bowtie, and undo the first couple of buttons on my shirt as I walk through the apartment, calling out Brie’s name. No response. I even knock on her bedroom door and crack it open to peek inside when no one answers—but she’s not there.
Worry starts to creep in, but I shove it down. It’s like I told Jake. Brie’s a big girl. She can take care of herself. She’s probably out with friends, drowning her sorrows in Fireball and fried food.
I cringe at the memory of Brie, kneeling on the floor on a bed of glass. The anger and shock in her eyes when her boss told her she was done for the night. And maybe for good. All because I had to open my big mouth. I couldn’t wait until after she was done working to talk to her.
Stupid. Selfish. Douchebag. Just like my goddamn father.
That last thought completely guts me. It’s bad enough I share DNA with him. He’s the last person in the world I want to emulate. In my defense, I wasn’t trying to be a jerk like my dad. It’s just that I was totally taken off guard when I saw her at the fundraiser. And I was afraid if I didn’t take advantage of the opportunity to talk to her, I might never get another chance.
It seems counterintuitive, I know, because, duh, we’re living together. I should have plenty of chances to talk to Brie. But we might as well be on different planets for the amount of times we’ve been in shouting distance of each other in the past seven days. Ever since that kiss. That epic, thrilling, terrifying kiss.
I don’t know if she’s making herself scarce on purpose or if our schedules just don’t mesh. She did warn me—or promise me—that she wouldn’t be around much. But one way or another, I’m going to find out.
I grab my e-reader, pour myself a shot of Johnnie Walker Platinum 18, and settle into my favorite armchair, which just happens to have a birds-eye view of my front door. I’m only a couple of chapters into my book and halfway finished with my scotch when I hear a key in the lock and the door swings open.
The room is in semi-darkness, the only light from the table lamp next to me and my e-reader, so it takes a second for Brie to register that I’m sitting there. When she does, her displeasure is clearly readable even in the half-light, etched across her face and in every rigid inch of her posture.
“I thought you’d still be out, celebrating with your fan club.”
I set my e-reader aside and shake my head. “I haven’t got the time or patience for a fan club. I donate because it’s the right thing to do, not to have my ass kissed by strangers and sycophants.”
She drops her purse on the couch and takes another step toward me. “I dunno. You seemed to enjoy having that Elizabeth chick fawn all over you.”
I lean forward, resting my forearms on my knees. “Jealous?”
She snorts. “Of what?”
“Elizabeth is a friend. That’s all.”
“You should tell her that.”
“I have.” I reach for my scotch, swirling the amber liquid around in my glass. “But I didn’t wait up for you so we could talk about Elizabeth.”
“Then why did you wait up for me?”
“So I could apologize for tonight.”
“Just for tonight?”
She crosses her arms over her chest and stares me down. Way down, because she’s standing and I’m in my comfy chair, swilling scotch.
The power dynamic isn’t lost on me, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find it a turn-on. One I try my damndest to ignore. My goal is to have a conversation, not a quickie. Although in my fantasies, which are plentiful and pornographic, sex with Brie is anything but quick. She’s the kind of woman you take your time with. Exploring every curve and crevice. Figuring out what makes her moan and writhe and call out my name.
I sip my scotch, not sure where this is going. “Is there something else I should be apologizing for?”
“Hmm, let me think.” She huffs a stray lock of red-brown hair off her forehead. “First, you kiss me. Then you pretend I don’t exist.”
“I thought you were steering clear of me,” I counter. “Or busy filming.”
She shoves her purse over and sits on the sofa, and a huge, invisible weight is lifted off my chest. Sitting means staying, and staying means she’s willing to listen to what I have to say.
“Well, my schedule has been crazy.” She slips off her no-nonsense waitressing shoes—which she somehow manages to make look as sexy as a pair of six-inch stilettos—and tucks her feet underneath her. “You really haven’t been avoiding me?”
“Really.”
“And I haven’t been avoiding you. So you’re telling me this has all been a giant misunderstanding?”
I shrug and polish off my scotch, setting my empty glass back on the side table. “I guess so.”
