Page 60 of Crazy In Love
Juggling my breakfast and slipping a key into the lock, I push the door open and step inside, a broad smile stretching across my face, my moodsoaring and my stomach tumbling, all because I cross the threshold and smell… us.
Me and Chris.
Not an overwhelming, nasty sex smell. But a sweet tang of body soap and excellent linen. It’s salad dressing and long, drawn-out pleasure.
Jesus, it’s nice. And if I’m not careful, that niceness will kick my ass and send my heart pitter-pattering all the way to the edge of a cliff just as soon as I’m back in New York, out of reach for the man whose hands worship. Whose eyes consume. Whose voice commands.
Shaking my head, I shut the door and leave the closed sign turned toward the street, then placing my coffee and half-eaten pastry on the counter, I cross the store and continue up the stairs and into my apartment, where the smell of us is richer. More concentrated.
I’m certain we left my bed unmade when we left yesterday, and IknowI left my salad uneaten, with a fork still in it, sitting on the floor. But as I cross the threshold and wander through my kitchen, I come to realize Chris’ early departure this morning might’ve led him here.
Curious, I set my bag on the counter by the sink and quickly grab the things I need for today—my phone and keys, plus my little notebook and Chris’ pen—and digging them into my pockets, I stroll toward the bathroom with the memories of shattered glass playing through my mind. But reality leaves me with something far less hectic. The shower door is missing, of course, and the handrail sits on the floor. But the glass is gone. The shattered remains, swept up, so the danger is gone, and my ability to pee in my own bathroom, restored.
Did he come by because he’s a clean freak? Or because he wanted to do something nice for me?
The former, probably. But the fact he could walk away from it all yesterday was, in itself, a surprise I didn’t dare vocalize for fear of ruining an amazing afternoon.
Christian Watkins is the perfect lover. Determined to please and demanding in all the best ways. When his dick is hard, and his hands are grabbing, he’s the kind of man I could get used to spending my time with. But when the sun is out, and the real world encroaches, he’s a different person entirely. Nitpicky, cranky, unbending, and not really all that nice.
All because of parents who hurt their sons and a life that chose to be cruel, when those boys deserved so much better.
“Ah, well.” Exhaling, I turn on my heels and make my way back through my apartment, through the door and pulling it shut when I’m onthe other side, then down the stairs so I can honor Alana’s need for her store to remain functional while she’s out of action.
I open a few windows and turn theclosedsign around. I power up the computer and switch on the coffee machine, and passing by the stereo, I flick it on, too, so music plays through the speakers perched in every corner of the store.
Not loud.
Merely present.
By nine-fifteen, the pastries arrive from the bakery, and by nine-thirty, I have the fridge stocked and customers perusing the shelves.
I’ve got this business on lock.
I spend a few hours serving and dropping cash into the register, but it takes just half a day to realize they come for a social life and not for the literature. Little old ladies create a book club, each of them balancing a tattered novel on their knees and a cup of coffee in their hands, and yet, the conversation is one percent about whatever Tolstoy wrote about and ninety-nine-point-nine percent whatever everyone else is doing around town.
I hear snippets about a doctor who lives inthe city, who, according to Barbara, isn’t really a doctor at all, butwe don’t say so in front of her father, because that creates rifts amongst the social circles. And I catch whispers about Alana and Tommy and how theyreally should be married before making babies, though the old bitches shut their traps when Iaccidentallyslam their ankles with the vacuum cleaner.
Which makes me theclumsy Yankee bitch.
Proudly.
Eliza Darling is apparently dating someone named Roger—according to Betty. Ollie Darling is helplessly single—according to Gloria. And Christian Watkins is probably still a virgin—according to Henrietta.
Jesus Christ take the wheel. If their information on Chris is anything to go by, then Eliza is probably dating someone named Greg, and Ollie is probably set to marry a hooker.
My phone trills around two o’clock with a New York area code and a picture that leaves my cheeks aching, so I answer on the fly and keep my voice low enough that the book club from hell can’t listen in. “Booker?”
He breathes out a satisfied, smiling exhale. “There she is. Tell me, Fox. How can it only be Monday, and you left on Friday, yet it feels like I haven’t seen you in weeks?”
“It’s only been two days?” I stop between two bookshelves and stare up at the ceiling in wonder. And confusion. “Really?”
“That’s what I’m saying! Time has slowed down, and morale is plummeting. Even the stock market is crashing. Weneedyou back.”
“Oh, please.” I lower my gaze and wander toward the back of the store. “You’re being a little OTT. How are things over there in the land of the sane?”
“I’d much rather hear about you,” he counters, laughing. “How’s life in the middle of nowhere? What do you even do with your time? That’s why it feels like forever, by the way. You have nothing to do and twenty-four long hours a day to do it in.”
“My days are going fast and slow at the same time.” I put the vacuum back on the charger and lean against the wall, taking a moment of privacy back here by the World History textbooks.No one cares to read those. “The baby arrived.”
