It suddenly didn’t feel so special after all.
I was fooling myself. He’d always be that man, wouldn’t he? Drawn to the pleasures monogamy couldn’t bring.
A leopard never changes his spots, after all.
I squeeze a little honey into my cup and resolve to ball up the memories of last night, stuffing them to the very back of my mind. Into the dirty laundry cupboard, where all the secrets are kept.
Swiping up the newspaper to scan the classifieds section, I carry it and my cuppa over to the kitchen table when my phone buzzes with a text.
ROSE: I’ll be in New York next month! Her text is followed by a line of emojis; cocktail glasses, heart eyes, and cake and is quickly followed by another.
Will you be free?
ME: What kind of question is that? I’m there for whatever with my bestie! And now I am so excited!!
Time spent with Rose is always fab. Girl time is just what I need. Except . . . girl time usually involves wine, and wine is often the precursor for spilling secrets.
ROSE: Good. We’re going to party so hard after bedtime!
ME: So, between eight p.m. and ten?
I’ll just have to drink my wine with soda water and endure her ribbing. She’s become such a wine snob since she married Remy. But if I don’t drink too much, maybe I won’t be tempted to spill.
ROSE: Rock on! Sending an email your way with the details.
ME: Can’t wait.
I wonder if Carson will want to see her.
The thought is unbidden, rising quickly and followed by another and an accompanying wave of distaste. Does he really have a thing for her?
It didn’t seem so last night.
You are mine, Fiadh, his dark voice echoes in my head. This body and your wild heart were made for me.
I take a mouthful of my tea, scalding my tongue. It’s no more than I deserve because I really need to stop thinking about him. It’s just not fair.
Flipping open the New York Post, I pull my earphones out from my pocket and jam them into my ears, hoping some loud, angry girl music will drown out my woes.
I’ve known obsession before. I think we all have. Humans are, after all, thinking creatures. Some of us are overthinking creatures.
I know Rose has her foundation, a healthy obsession in a lot of ways.
Charles has his hair, though for how many more years, I’m not sure. It is a little thin.
And Lulu, my lovely magpie, has the shiny things she likes to borrow. Something I hope she’ll grow out of.
My obsessions have largely been body issues; matters I’ve overcome through learning and time. I’m not sure how either of these will help me overcome my latest obsession of a man with a body built for sin and the belief that he should share it.
23
Carson
A little after noon, I find myself at my front door, my finger poised over the bell.
Ah, what the hell. I pull my keys from my pockets and, with only the slightest twinge of discomfort, let myself in.
Honey, I’m home.
I can’t help but smile. I’m sure hearing that would drive her a little crazy, which I guess is the whole point. Drive her crazy to the point of giving in. Grind her down until she agrees to spend more time with me.
Because all good things come to those who wait.
And tease.
I take off my jacket, hanging it in the hall closet, my shoes echoing against the parquet floor as I seek out my target in the communal areas of the apartment first. Kitchen, living room, den. Maybe I’ll get lucky and find her in the bath again.
But I don’t. Instead, I discover her sitting at the kitchen table, poring over a copy of the New York Post . A mug of something hot and steamy stands on the table next to it. Not coffee. Maybe tea? My eyes flick to the stovetop and find an unfamiliar tea kettle sitting on top.
I pause at the doorway without making my presence known. She’s wearing earphones, her head bobbing along to music that sounds a little tinny from here. But earphones mean no Lulu.
Which is . . . interesting.
Her feet bare, one curls around the leg of the chair, the other taps the tiles in time with the music. She wears tight blue yoga pants and a striped sweater that appears to be several sizes too big and all the colours of the rainbow. No ponytail today, her hair falling like a golden sheet across her shoulders and down her back. And thank the good Lord, black-framed glasses. It’s like being hot for two different women. The virtuous girl next door with her bare feet and sunny hair and the siren last night who left me holding her underwear.
She reaches for her mug and takes a slurp. Yes, a goddamn slurp! The kind that should be reserved for ice cream. Or my dick. I find myself smothering a chuckle as I slot away the tiny insight that seems almost charming as she sets down her mug. Making a bracelet of her fingers, she pushes the baggy sleeve up her arm from the wrist. She turns the page and twists in her seat, maybe suffering a little muscle twinge from last night, which I can fully appreciate given I woke this morning feeling like I’d ab crunched for days.