Debt

"Byron said you were sleeping in and not to disturb you. I figured you must not be feeling well."

"Oh, no. I'm fine. I was just... tired," I half-lied. "Did he get his coffee yet today?" I asked as I reached for another mug.

"Three hours ago."

Three hours ago.

So he must have left me sometime before seven.

"I'll bring him a fresh cup," I said, distractedly, as I moved back toward the hallway. He left me before seven? I wasn't sure if I was supposed to feel almost a little upset about that fact. Was he ashamed to be caught with me? Or was he maybe being considerate in letting me keep the affair between the two of us?

I let myself into his office after placing my own cup on a cabinet in the hall, eyes landing on him immediately as I walked in, taking in the crisp, clean suit and the freshly-shaved face. He was on the phone, legs propped up on the desk like I had never seen them before. Relaxed, I realized. I wasn't sure I had ever seen him look so relaxed at work. Or maybe ever.

Great. He was relaxed.

I felt all kinds of antsy.

Not that that was abnormal for me, but still.

I placed his cup and didn't get so much as a glance.

I felt my belly plummet as I turned and somewhat stiffly walked back toward the hall. It was stupid, girly, and immature, but that was what happened. I had no right whatsoever to feel disappointed or upset. He had been explicit when he informed me that it was just sex, mutually respectful sex, but that was it. No flowers. No love. No prince charming.

"Augh," I growled to myself, snagging my coffee cup and stomping up the staircase toward his bedroom. It was bathroom day. And, for once, I was almost happy to do it. When I was stressed or emotional, I found cleaning cathartic.

So an hour later, fingers red and sore from scrubbing, I stood up and nodded at my masterpiece, shining like it was all brand new, reeking of bleach. I exhaled a breath and felt a little of the weight on my shoulders drift away.

"Wanna talk about it?" Byron's voice said behind me, making me yelp and swirl, my hand flying to my heart.

I found him standing a foot outside the bathroom door, cocky smirk in place. "Jesus. Were you watching me?"

"Yep."

"Creep," I said, shaking my head at him as I rinsed the brush and threw it into the bucket in the cabinet under the sink.

"You didn't answer me."

"Talk about what?"

"In my experience, when a woman cleans until her fingers bleed, she's got some shit on her mind. So, do you want to talk about it?"

I did.

But at the same time, I didn't.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I lied. "I just got a good deep clean in. I had nothing else to do so I figured I would pay extra attention to it this time."

"Yeah, sure," he said, snorting. "Here," he said, letting it drop and holding out a piece of paper to me.

I reached for it, feeling a little flutter again. I knew it was his dessert menu. I looked down at his neat writing, feeling my brows draw together. "Is this a... homemade Pop-Tart recipe?" I asked, looking up with a disbelieving smile.

"I lived on those things as a kid. I wanna try ones without all the shit in them."

"Maybe the shit is what made them so good."

"Maybe," he agreed, rocking back on his heels slightly. "But I think yours will be better."

I felt myself blush slightly at the compliment and pretended like the recipe required all my attention. "Are you dead-set on only the original strawberry with icing ones or can I get inventive too?"

"Babe, knock your socks off," he said, giving me a warm smile. "You make it, I'll eat it."

"Nine o'clock?" I asked.

"Yep."

"Alrighty," I said, tucking the recipe away a little carelessly while, inside, I was reminding myself it was just till he was out of sight then I could straighten it and tuck it away with the other one that I had already stashed inside my purse for reasons that were somewhat unknown to me at the time.

"Have fun," he said, nodding at me then moving toward the door. "I'll be back later."

Then, well, he was gone.

At six, Ella long gone because Byron didn't plan on being home for dinner, I made my way downstairs to start baking, Prince blaring through the speakers and drowning out my own internal monologue. About an hour and a half later, I had the classic strawberry-filled, vanilla-topped tarts, complete with multi-colored sprinkles, but also brown sugar cinnamon ones, and even a very special Nutella, chocolate, and peanut butter concoction I was particularly proud of. I plated them and set to putting away all the ingredients.