Page 15 of When I Found You

Chapter Seven

Katherine

After a horrible night unable to sleep thanks to the unnecessary sexual attraction blossoming between Arthur and me, I must have hit a wall, or a door with my luck, because the next thing I know it’s nine a.m. The makeshift bed on the couch lay empty and a note sits next to the still warm pot of coffee in the machine.

At work. My number is 555-8940. Use only in an emergency. Do not leave the apartment. Make yourself at home.

I toss the paper aside. Damn it. I had every intention of badgering him into letting me come with him to the office. I want to see my dad.

The note stares up at me. I read it again. It’s no declaration of undying love, but deep beneath the brusque sentences, there’s a glimpse of concern for my wellbeing. Maybe he’s trying. I don’t know.

Last night confused the hell out of me. One minute I can almost feel the sparks flying between us and the next he’s built a brick wall ten feet high. The expression on his face when he saw the pajamas his sister brought. Oh, holy night. He looked ready to jump me then and there. But a cool displeasure smothered whatever heat ignited in that brief moment.

The way he tossed me over his shoulder and threw me on the bed. Hot. The way he dismissed me and left me completely confused. Well, dick move on his part.

I grab a cup of coffee and something to nibble before planting my butt in front of the TV. After messing with the ancient entertainment system, I finally get the damn thing turned on. I need something to distract me from the fact I’m attracted to my father’s boss.

Three hours of non-stop soap operas is enough to rot anyone’s brain. I rotate through the channels three times until I realize there’s nothing good on television during the day. Not only was this true in my time but also in the past it seems.

I groan at the manufactured drama on the television. I don’t even know which one this is. Days of our Lives. Young and the Restless. Hell, it could be Dallas for all I know. It’s so over the top. I groan. How the hell did Nanna watch this garbage?

I click through it again and find MTV. Like actual MTV playing music videos. I instantly recognize the song. REO Speedwagon playing “Can’t Fight This Feeling.” I stare at the television entranced by the video. I’ve heard the song a million times, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen the video. The lyrics return without hesitation. Oh man, the power of an eighties rock ballad.

I crank up the volume and sing along as I wander into the kitchen to find a snack. Inside the cabinet I find a bag of Doritos and a box of Famous Amos chocolate chip cookies. Score! There’s only juice and water in the refrigerator. The cup of coffee and toast I ate this morning has long since worn off.

After tucking my snacks under one arm, I carry the juice and a glass into the living room. The bed I made the night before is still there. Blanket thrown over the back of the couch haphazardly. I pick it up and wrap it around me before settling down onto the couch.

The spicy scent of Arthur creates a cocoon around me. I nestle deeper into the fabric. Why does he have to smell so damn good?

Ten minutes of music videos and I’m nodding off. Just as I snuggle against the pillow and give in to the exhaustion, the phone rings.

I bolt upright and search the room. Where the hell is the phone?

It rings again and I see it sitting on a glass table beside the couch.

“Hello?” I nearly knock the whole contraption to the ground. Damn corded phones! Don’t they have cordless yet? He’s rich enough.

“I must have the wrong number. I was looking for Arthur,” a woman’s voice purrs through the receiver.

“No, this is the right number.” I cradle the phone in both hands. “He’s at work right now. Can I take a message?”

Silence fills the line.

“Hello? Are you still there?”

“I see Arthur hasn’t wasted any time finding some hussy to warm his bed,” the woman hisses.

Stunned, I choke on my reply before getting it out. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me, tramp. Moving in on another woman’s territory, huh?”

I blink twice completely blanking on how to reply. “You misunderstand...”

“No. You misunderstand. Arthur is mine. So, you’d best get your shit and get out,” she growls into the other line.

“Lady, I don’t know who you are or what the hell you’re smoking, but you have issues.” I slam the phone down so hard it makes me flinch. Damn, that was satisfying. Ending a call on an iPhone doesn’t have quite the same effect.

The soap opera drama has somehow transferred from the television and into my life. Great. I flop down onto the couch and burrow beneath the blanket once more.

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