Page 81 of A Temporary Forever

Caleb

Apiece of shit.

That’s what I feel like.

The sun peeks through the slits of my blackout blinds. I stare at my ceiling instead of going to the gym. But it’s not the lack of workout that’s making me feel shitty.

Last night, at the restaurant, I had a thought. I saw myself arriving home with Celeste and taking her to my bedroom.

Simple? Yes.

Exciting? Yes.

Normal? No. Not for me.

I didn’t lie when I told her no woman had ever visited my place. And no woman’s ever slept in my bed. I don’t do beds. Unless I’m alone.

For some fucked-up reason, I wasn’t ready to admit that. Or to break this little rule of mine. Which left me with only one option—send her home alone, wait till she fell asleep, and then tiptoe to my room like a thief.

There are several firsts that happened here.

First time I actually would have invited a woman to my bed. If I wasn’t a coward.

First time I’m more concerned about protecting someone else’s feelings. Because I couldn’t just drop her by her room’s door.

First time I’m actually ready to grovel. Because fuck, we have a good thing going, and I’m not ready to give it up just yet.

I don’t like any of these novelties.

Even though I’m not sure if she’s even pissed. Or hurt. Or indifferent.

The last option churns in my stomach. Fuck.

Another thing churning inside me is the unequivocal realization that I’m a hypocrite. I want the woman, but only on my terms.

Having Mia appear in my life and then letting Celeste in… It’s too much at the same time. No time to adjust, to reconsider my values.

My lifestyle has been uprooted, and I need time to digest. Hence the upset stomach.

Fuck, this will give me ulcers if I don’t pull my head out of the gutter. Or pull the plug on all of this.

The latter stops me in my tracks. The idea of going back to the begrudging cohabitation with Celeste lies heavy on my chest, restricting my oxygen supply. What the fuck?

The doorman calls me about a delivery, and I make my way downstairs. Celeste is in the kitchen.

Her chestnut hair is in a tight bun, and she’s wearing one of her casual dresses, though Celeste’s casual is quite formal.

The dress is black, not her usual color, but it hugs her waist and shows her curves in all the right places. She doesn’t see me, and I savor the moment for a bit.

She opens a cabinet. Always so graceful.

She rises on her tiptoes. Always so feline.

She takes a cup. Always so… uniquely Celeste.

She rubs her fingers against her neck, massaging her nape while she taps her foot, waiting for her coffee.

I lean against the post that brackets the entrance. “Good morning,” I rasp when the elevator dings.

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