Page 104 of The Hot Shot
Over the tub hangs a glass chandelier fashioned to look like a sailing ship, a bit of unexpected whimsy that I love.
In all the pretty, he’s left his brush on the counter next to three tubes of various men’s hair products, and his toothpaste lies open by the sink. I fight the urge to cap it and put it back in the little gray cup that holds his toothbrush. I’m not here to tidy.
The closet is just as impressive. Dark gray walls, white woodwork. Rows of dark suits, polished leather shoes, and then an entire wall of athletic shoes. He has drawers and drawers of casual clothes. A section devoted to athletic wear and gear. The place smells like him, lingering with the cologne he sometimes wears. The space is so big that he’s only taken up half of it.
The other half could be yours. Look at all those empty shelves and lonely rods, waiting for clothes to hang on them.
I swallow a sip of wine and then leave his closet. I don’t stop until I’m in my own, smaller room. I love this space. It’s comfortable, with a bathroom that, while perfectly done, is small enough to find in most homes.
Finn’s space is like a dream. Big and bold, it speaks of the highest echelon of wealth and privilege. His sheets are fine linen. His duvet cover is cashmere. I can’t even afford a cashmere throw. I glance at the cream-colored throw at the end of my bed and snort. It is cashmere, and it is Finn’s.
Am I really freaking out over Finn’s money? Or is it just a convenient excuse? I think about James and New York. James won’t be here anymore. My sounding board is leaving me.
With a sigh, I plop onto my bed and wrap myself in the throw. “I’m a damn mess who is talking to herself.”
I decide to ignore my brain and settle down with a good book that proves increasingly hard to read. My concentration is shot, and my self-pity is ridiculously high.
I’m close to maudlin by the time Finn finally comes home. My heart gives a little leap when I hear him open then close the front door. He’s here. Finn will understand.
He’ll give me a hug and let me cry on his shoulder. He’ll tell me everything is going to be okay.
He walks right by my room, not even glancing my way, even though my door is open and the light is on. Mouth agape, I watch him pass.
For a moment, there is only silence in my room and the sound of him tromping into his. And then the yelling starts.
“Chess? Chessssss! Chester!” He’s so loud, I fear the neighbors will call the cops.
“Jesus,” I mutter, then call out, “What?”
Footsteps stomp, and then he appears in the doorway, a big scowl on his face. “What the fuck are you doing in here?”
He sounds so disgruntled I want to laugh. “Ah... getting ready to sleep?”
This clearly does not appease. “Why are you doing that inhere?”
“Because it’s my room.”
It’s as if he’s sucked a rotten lemon, his mouth twisting, his nostrils flaring. “This is not your room. It’s the guest room.” Sheer disgust and outrage drips from his lips. And he raises an arm to point down the hall. “Yourroom is that way.”
He stands, arms crossed over his chest, like some king waiting for an explanation.
And I roll my eyes. “Excuse me for not presuming—Ack!”
Finn scoops me up, puts me over his shoulder, and heads for his room. “Don’t even start with that. We’re together now. My bed is your bed.”
“Put me down, asshole!” The floor is way too far below.
“I will. Once we’re inourroom.” He gives my butt a light slap.
“Jesus, you really are a caveman.”
“I prefer the Tarzan and Jane scenario,” he says easily. “I’d look great in a loincloth, don’t you think?”
“God, the ego on you.” However, I silently agree.
Chuckling, he weaves a bit, which freaks me out, and I clutch the waistband of his jeans. “If you drop me, I will kill you.”
“I’m not gonna drop you.” He enters the bedroom and stops. “No, I lied. I am totally dropping you.”
