Page 6 of Craving Cooper

She narrows her eyes, then sidles to the edge of the bed, climbing off. “So that’s it? You’re not going to change?”

“Why should I? I thought you liked me as I am.”

“Not forever, Cooper.” Who the hell said anything about ‘forever’? “You’re not supposed to stay the same. You’re supposed to grow… or at the very least, grow up.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” She gives me a slight bob curtsey, which is purely ironic, and then she looks around the room. I guess she’s wondering where her clothes are, and has forgotten we undressed in the living room. It clearly dawns on her after a second or two and she turns, flouncing through the door. I could lie here, but that would be childish, and besides, I need to shower, so I get up and follow her, leaning against the bedroom doorframe and watching as she pulls on her underwear.

“Before you say anything,” she says, looking up at me. “This isn’t my fault.”

“Then whose is it? You’re the one who started it, Meredith. You’re the one who wanted to talk. Remember?”

“Yes. Because I thought you were enough of an adult to want to listen.”

“I am. I just don’t happen to agree.”

She’s pulling on her jeans, but turns to face me, managing not to fall over. “What does that mean?”

“It means I am who I am. You are who you are. If we can’t be those people and be together, then…”

“Then maybe we’re better off apart,” she says, finishing my sentence for me. “I was thinking that myself.”

She quickly fastens her jeans before grabbing her t-shirt and pulling it on over her head. Without another word, or even a glance in my direction, she slips on her shoes, and marches to the door, picking up her purse from the floor, where she dropped it last night as she threw herself at me. The contrast between then and now is too marked not to notice, but she’s gone before I can say anything. Not that I know what I would have said. It certainly wouldn’t have been ‘stay’, or ‘come back’, or ‘let’s talk this through’. It wouldn’t even have been ‘I’m sorry’. That’s not my style. Neither is going after her, so that won’t happen. I’ve never gone after anyone in my life, and there’s no way I’m making an exception for Meredith.

Besides, she’ll call later, once she’s calmed down. She always does.

I know that sounds arrogant, but I’m just talking from experience. We’ve had fights before – more times than I want to think about. But one way or the other, she always comes back.

She’ll call or text before the day is out. That’s always the way… well, nearly always. A couple of times she’s made me wait longer, but those were about her work, not about us. No… she’ll call, no doubt telling me she didn’t mean it. That was what she said the last time we fought about this, which is why I don’t understand. What’s the point in discussing this time after time, if all she’s going to do is say she didn’t mean it? Still, if it’s anything like it has been in the past, she’ll offer to make it up to me next weekend, and probably suggest how, and she’ll even acknowledge that she’d go crazy if I was under her feet all time. Because she would. She’s always made that clear, despite everything she’s just said…

She’s addicted to her art and usually hates it when people call it a ‘job’. To her, it’s a way of life, and I’ve learned to accommodate that.

I didn’t realize it when we first started seeing each other, but I guess that was because the attraction was physical… for both of us. She’d come over to Hart’s Creek that Friday night and had spent the evening at Dawson’s Bar with a friend of hers. I was there by myself. That hadn’t been planned. I was supposed to be meeting Brady, but he’d been called out on an emergency and I’d decided to stay there, rather than going home. Throughout the evening, I couldn’t escape the feeling that I was being watched, and eventually, I realized it was the pretty redhead at the bar who was doing the watching. She made the first move, jumping down from the barstool she was sitting on, and walking over to me, a sexy smile etched on her generous lips. I’ll admit, though, that my attention was mostly drawn to her breasts. I may be an ass man, down to my very core, but I was willing to make an exception for the delights before me, which were barely encased in a white blouse, the buttons of which were straining to cover them. In a vague attempt to appear gentlemanly, I stood, and she looked up, licking her lips as she introduced herself, and when I offered her a seat, she accepted with a flutter of her eyelashes. I don’t think either of us was in any doubt about where the evening was going, and we barely made it through the drinks I bought before impatience got the better of us.

She stayed the night, although we got little sleep, and as her friend had driven back to Willmont Vale, I gave her a ride home in the morning.

“Can I see you again?” she asked, looking up at me.

“Sure, if you want.” I didn’t see why not. We’d had fun. She seemed fairly easy-going, and her breasts certainly hadn’t disappointed.

“Hmm… I want,” she murmured, reaching over and resting her hand on my dick. I’d only fucked her about an hour earlier, in the shower, but I was ready to go again, and that must have been obvious to her. Her eyes lit up as she invited me inside, and who was I to say ‘no’?

I didn’t stay for long. Just long enough to make my first mistake.

She had a painting hanging on the wall in her bedroom, and as I lay there, getting my breath back, I asked what it was supposed to be.

“It’s not supposed to be anything,” she said, throwing me a glare as she got out of bed. “That’s not how art works.”

It was to me, but I didn’t say so.

When I left, she told me she had plans for the rest of the weekend. “But I can see you next Friday, if you like?”

“Sure.”

We swapped numbers, and she called on the Thursday evening to make the arrangements.

“I’ll come to your place,” she said. “It’ll be easier.”

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