Page 36 of Falling for Carla

“You’re not in that world anymore, the fucked up one where men think they can control everyone with their anger and their fists. That’s not what real men do, Carla,” he protested. I nodded.

“I agree. It was just what I grew up knowing. Watching that silk scarf burn cost me more than the surgery on my jaw and being on basically house arrest till I looked normal again. It was easy enough to say the grief was why I needed to stay at home. I was pretty docile after that. Just biding my time till I could leave home for good.”

“That’s not docile. That’s crafty, planning your escape while you sit in prison counting the days off. You didn’t give in. He didn’t break you. Nothing did,” Drake said. “Your mother would never have been ashamed of you, of your strength and resilience and your intelligence. Your awesome chicken piccata.” He gave me a devastating smile, the kind that made freshmen post dirty stories about him on the school Reddit. I grinned back.

“So it’s not just delicious. It's a truth serum, too. Maybe I’ll sell the recipe for my piccata to the LAPD for interrogation purposes.”

“It’s not the chicken,” he said. “I missed talking to you. I missed you. I made a bad time for you worse by freezing you out. By denying you any kind of friendship or support. I apologize. It was selfish and wrong.”

“You were trying to protect us both. But we could’ve had this the whole time.” I took another drink of my wine.

“I know. It makes me feel like an ass, if that makes you feel any better.”

“It does, a little,” I laughed. “But talking with you is all that really helps. I’ve been cooped up in here for weeks. I’ve gone stir crazy. I’ve cleaned out all your cabinets. I’ve refolded your clothes and organized your dresser and your closet. I’ve learned everything there is to know about a man from living in his home and seeing how you do everything. How you squeeze the toothpaste from the middle instead of the end of the tube so it gets messy and gross,” I laughed, “and how for a professor and former detective, you really don’t have that many matching socks. ”

He was looking at me with such tenderness in his eyes. “I noticed everything you changed, everything you put in order, Carla. You were trying to provoke me into talking to you even if I got angry.”

“My best friend used to have a cat that when they got her as a kitten, their dog hated it. Wouldn’t pay any attention to it at all, and this cat, there was no discouraging her. She’d go nap in his food bowl to get his attention. If I’m honest, I’ve felt like that cat a time or two, doing anything and everything to get you to just look at me, Drake.”

“I saw you. I saw all of it. I was stubborn, trying not to get in any deeper. Like there was any point. Like I could ever have held out against this, against you.”

“Yeah, my chicken piccata is like a battering ram, breaking down your walls,” I joked.

“Not the food. You. Everything you notice and the way you speak and move,” he shook his head.

I passed him the pan I’d finished scouring. He dried it, our eyes meeting, warmth between us. The rush of desire was so strong I almost couldn’t hold it back. Because he’d been right in a way. Any kind of connection, any kind of friendship between us just opened up that door. There was never going to be any ‘just friends’ with us. It was impossible. Even the single inch between our hands when I passed him a skillet to dry was alive with sizzle and possibility as we were careful not to touch by accident.

“I noticed you all the time. You didn’t have to leave me notes or move my shoes around.”

“It was a game I played with myself to keep my mind off the danger I’m in. And if it got you to pay attention to me, that was a bonus,” I said, “if I just sat here and worried, I’d lose my mind. Not trying to brag, but my coursework isn’t exactly that demanding. I got it done in no time. I’m ahead on every syllabus by weeks. Including yours, don’t get offended.”

“I know how smart you are. I’m not doubting it. It’s been rough on you, stuck here with no one to talk to and unable to go out. If rearranging my spices and plastic containers keeps you happy, go for it.”

“I tried to do feng shui,” I confessed. “But I kept having trouble figuring out where to put the tissue box and the trash can. There has to be a good place where it’s not going to ruin your luck or your friendships—but I couldn’t figure it out. So I gave up and that’s the day I moved all the furniture in my bedroom and cleaned under it. How long had it been since you moved that bed?”

“Uh, never. I had a cleaner come in once a week, before you came. I didn’t expect you to clean the place. I just canceled because I didn’t want anyone coming in here and having access to you and the apartment.”

“Is that why you changed the lock on the front door and added another deadbolt?”

“Yeah. The cleaning service returned my key but you can’t be sure that none of the employees made a copy. All it would have taken was someone to connect you to me, and then seek out the building maintenance or a cleaning service that might have a key to get in here.”

“You really do think like a detective 24-7,” I said. “I’m glad you do.”

“Thanks. Most people, my friends included, call me paranoid.”

“Is it the getaway bag you keep in your car or the concealed weapon that tips them off?” I teased.

“Both.”

“Do you have a panic room?” I asked.

“No. You would’ve found it and cleaned it by now if I did,” he said, cracking a smile, and I laughed.

“True.”

“I like having you here,” he said unexpectedly.

“Even when you don’t talk to me at all?”

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