I search the drawers and then settle for a long-sleeved White Sox T-shirt, and when I slip it on, something on one of the twin nightstands catches my eye.
It’s my photograph, right next to his watch and his wallet. The one where I’m looking at the camera, looking vulnerable and caught by surprise.
I try to ignore the hot little clench in my stomach as I force myself to head back to the kitchen.
Tahoe stands by the kitchen window, staring at the Chicago skyline with a clenched jaw, as if he’s trying to control some inner frustration.
Every sharp angle and smooth curve of his face is beautifully outlined in the dark. His blue eyes practically glow when he turns and sees me in his White Sox T-shirt. Something raw and hot flashes in his gaze for the briefest second before he quells it. I can’t breathe.
I gulp and try to distract myself and him. “I was getting us some water.”
“I know,” he says, not interested in my thirst.
He looks into my eyes for a long moment before trailing his down my body. I stand there and let him.
I let him look at me.
In his shirt.
Though he doesn’t say anything about the shirt I chose to wear, he’s looking at me as if he thinks I look gorgeous in it. I don’t think a man has ever looked at me this possessively before. He clenches his jaw. His dark voice breaks through the air. “I’ll get you some water.”
He reaches for a plastic cup and pours water in it.
I defiantly stare at the little plastic sippy cup, quirking my brow at him.
He smirks. “I have a little cousin.” He looks into my eyes again. “Besides, I think we’ve already established we can’t trust you with sharp or delicate objects.”
I laugh and roll my eyes. “Shut up.” And I open my hand. “Give me my sippy cup.”
He laughs and hands me the cup, taking me by the arm and leading me to the study. He plops down on the white couch and pats the seat next to him. He turns up the fireplace, and as I sit down beside him, I notice he’s cleaned up all of his papers.
I’m clutching onto my sippy cup for dear life, afraid to move.
After a few long, dragging, crackling minutes, I hear a low rasp. “Hey, come here for a bit.” And he reaches out his arm and draws me into his chest. “I like that you came over,” he whispers, brushing my hair behind my cheek.
I swallow. “Well. Someone has to watch out for you, I guess.”
“I guess,” he agrees, looking into my eyes.
We stay there silent for a while but I don’t make a move to leave his arms.
Knowing I shouldn’t get comfortable, I eventually force myself to sit up straight and put a little distance between us.
He drags his hand lazily down my spine then drops it. “What’s up?”
I shrug then glance at a thick vintage car book on the coffee table. “Are you as passionate about cars as you are about lacrosse?”
“My grandfather restored vintage pieces. The one on the cover is mine.” He smirks and spreads his arm on the back of the couch again. “They used to build things to last in those days,” he says.
“Really? Hmm. It’s lovely.”
“I’ll drive you around in it someday.”
He rests his head on the back of the couch and stares at the ceiling again.
The exhaustion of the past few weeks from hard work and apartment hunting start weighing on me, so I place my cheek on the back of the couch, facing him. He tells me about his grandfather and his collection of cars, and the museum in Texas in his memory, and I focus on the sound of his delicious voice, lulling me to a near sleep.
The exotic smell of his soap and skin makes me feel like I am on vacation and nothing else exists but this. Him. Him him him, god, HIM.
“I’m comfortable around you,” I whisper, as quietly as a confession.
He turns his head to me, his eyes half-mast. “Does your boyfriend make you feel as comfortable as I do?”
Some fiery warmth in his eyes makes me want to admit, I started dating him because you’ve always implied that I can’t be with you.
His pupils enlarge, as if he can read the answer in my eyes.
“He doesn’t,” I admit. “But…does that matter? So what if I’m more comfortable with you? Maybe you’re just good with the ladies.” I smirk, trying to lighten the thick-as-tar air between us. “Ladies are your specialty.”
He scowls. “Hell, I never said that.”
“Then what are we doing here discussing… What are we even discussing?”
He sits up and looks at me, shifting his body as he does, his expression deadly somber as he rests his elbows on his knees and grabs his cast with his good hand as if it suddenly hurts. “Just because I’m not with you, doesn’t mean I don’t think about it.” He raises his brows, challenging me as he slowly adds a bad boy smile and lets me register what he said.
I blink, flabbergasted.
“Are you teasing me?” I narrow my eyes, straightening too.
“Why would I tease you, Regina?” He tugs on a strand of my hair, smiling with a sparkle in his eyes.
“Tahoe Roth, the infamous player, would be monogamous all of a sudden? What? Do you want a girlfriend now?” I ask, pushing at his chest, laughing at the thought.
He laughs too. “I’m too old for a girlfriend,” he says, catching my wrist before I can retrieve it and squeezing it gently in his warm palm.
“So what do you want? Do you want me to be a permanent groupie? And what, you promise not to break my heart, you shameless heartbreaker?”
He smirks as he holds my wrist in his hands, squeezing it gently—and in that moment I feel like he’s squeezing my heart.
He smirks again, but his voice is low and husky, as is the look in his eyes. “You’d need to give it to me for me to break it.”
“In your wildest dreams, Roth.” I sound breathless. I am breathless. I pry my wrist free of his hold. “Look, I like being with you, so what? And maybe you drop my defenses, so what? I got drunk and said some things at the beach house. That’s what this is coming from, right? It’s no big deal.”
He leans back and spreads out his arms, and his dimple is still showing even when his eyes swirl like storms. “It’s a big deal to me.”
“It’s not a big deal.” I straighten in my seat and tug down his shirt primly. Nervously.
“Alright then, it’s no big deal.” He smirks, cants his head and links his hands behind his head, looking at me as he waits for a reaction.
I exhale. “You told me yourself you had nothing to offer me. It’s taken me a while to see you were right, Tahoe.”
Ever so slowly, he lowers his arms back to rest his elbows on his knees and leans forward. He clenches his jaw in frustration, his eyes losing their shine. God, they’re almost black, they’re so dark and stormy.
He looks at me, all of his energy muted, as if he’s coiling it all within himself for control. “You’re not yourself when you’re with him, Regina. The girl right here with me now,” he runs his eyes over me with a slow, meaningful nod, “the girl with me, is the Regina I know. The girl I see with Davis is a shadow of her. You can do so much better than that motherfucker and you know it.”
All the confusions about my relationship with Trent rise to the forefront, and I hate him for bringing them here.
“He’s good, Tahoe,” I say lamely.
“Is he good, Regina?” He raises his brows, and if I didn’t know better, I’d swear that beneath the playful, devilish glint in his eyes, there’s a jealous fire brewing there too. “Do you give your boyfriend your panties too?”
“No.” I bristle at the reminder and poke his chest angrily. “By the way, I want those back.”
“That would be a no as well.” He catches my finger, caresses it between his thumb and forefinger before I pry it free.
I fold my finger back into my palm; it burns a little. “Why not?”
“’Cause I like the way they look,” he says with a shameless glint in
his eye, “I like the way they smell, and I like the way they feel between my fingers.”
The color rises up my cheeks and neck and body.
Heat floods between my legs.
My heart feels like a volcano, pumping nothing but lava into my veins.
“I don’t think you love him,” he continues. “You’re not happy with him. It’s like you’re forcing yourself to be whatever you think he wants you to be. If he’s with you, he should want you, just you, period.” He glares in confusion and frustration and anger on my behalf. “Baby,” he exclaims, shaking his head in bewilderment, “why would any woman want to be anything else when they are you, huh?” He grabs my face and looks into my eyes, frustrated. “Huh, Gina?” he demands, searching my face.
His eyes bore into me.
His jaw is clenched so tight I think he’ll break his molars.
“What if that motherfucker is the best I can do?” I challenge back, just a breath.
He laughs softly and caresses his thumbs over my cheekbones before releasing me.
He falls back on the seat, shaking his head.
“That’s not true, you can do so much better,” he softly assures. He reaches out and touches my hair, gently tweaks my nose, and leans over. He sniffs me as he says, “You’re gorgeous, girl. You’re authentic. You smell like heaven.” He eases back, his smile so honest and adorable. “Your presence is like a sparkling firework that never goes out. You bake pie. And your smile is an absolute addiction.”
Scoffing, I nudge him to try to hide my blush. “You’re a jackass! Come on.”
He chuckles, still smiling as he swears, “Regina, this is no joking matter.” He nudges me back. “I love that smile of yours. Show me that smile of yours.” He ducks closer and peers into my face.
I raise my chin and fake a flat, hard smile.
He frowns instantly. “Yeah, um, a little less purse of the lips.” His thumbs gently force my lips to curl upward. “There,” he murmurs, raising his playful eyes to mine.
I feel his thumb remain on the corner of my lips for a second.
I see his smile fade just a fraction as our stares hold.
And all I can think of right now is that I want his lips. I want his hands all over me. Under his shirt that I’m wearing. Between my legs and inside of me.
We stare at each other, and he looks at my mouth like it is all that exists for him right now.
My heart starts pounding.
I’m scared.
His stare is frightening—it’s so blue, so clear, so expectant. So fucking hungry, this guy would eat me up alive and leave no bones to bury.
Slowly…his thumb brushes my lips, removing a little of my lipstick.
My heart almost leaps out of my chest and toward him when I realize he wants my mouth. He wants my mouth bare—with nothing but me.
But I’m so scared I’m trembling. I think of Trent. Of us, on this break.
Finally there’s a good guy who likes me, who might love me. And here is this guy who can have everything he wants and who can take it all away. Who is already such a threat between me and Trent, between me and any other guy.
I cannot get on the Tahoe rollercoaster. Maybe before, when it would be a one-night stand, it was an option.
Now I like him.
Now I care more about him than I care about makeup, jobs, apartments, friends, chocolate.
He’s funny and I think of him often and he’s generous and protective and cocky. And he makes me feel alive. And more than anything—a revelation, really, because a year ago I never thought it possible that we could grow to be this close—I’m too scared to lose his friendship too.
I push myself to my feet, my voice thick with unwanted lust. “I have to go.”
He catches my wrist. “Hey. Stay.”
His blue eyes bore into me, something fiery crackling in their depths that some hidden part of me fiercely responds to with a hot, tight little ache.
Something about the look in his eyes transports me to the Saints’ wedding.
That same rawness is there, that same quiet demand, that same hunger.
When he asked me if I wanted him and I said no.
This moment if he asked me again, I don’t know if my answer would be the same. But then what? Then I’d lose his friendship, and still have the pleasure of watching him womanize his way across the continent?
Thank you, but I deserve better than that. Even Trent is better than that.
“I really have to go.” I pull my wrist free of his grasp and head to the elevators.
I’m already repeatedly pressing the elevator button when he calls my name.
I turn. He’s standing with his legs spread and a look of determination and undiluted frustration on his face. “Do you think about us at all, Regina?”
“Yes.”
His eyes sparkle menacingly.
“But that doesn’t mean I’ll ever do anything about it. You want other things, and I want what you can’t give. So…eat your pie and…get well soon,” I hurry to say as I board the elevator and then turn.
We keep staring all the way until the doors close. And even when the doors close, I hear him slam something hard and growl, “Jesus goddammit fuck!!”
And my throat swells with emotion when I am pretty sure that he threw my pie at the wall.
HOME
The next few weeks feel as if I have shoved the entire contents of my life inside a blender and pressed spin. I’ve moved several times in my life, but this time it feels a bit more nerve-wracking because I’m moving to the first apartment meant just for me.
In winter, the birds sense a change, and they migrate in groups, all looking to improve their situation. After Rachel got married and Wynn moved in with Emmett, it seemed I was the only bird not migrating with the others. But that changed this summer when I met with Tahoe’s friend, William Blackstone, who showed me a beautiful apartment, the perfect size for me and in the perfect Loop location that I adore. It’s a one-bedroom, with a bedroom twice the size of my current one, views to die for, and a closet that I could probably never fill up.
It’s time to fly the coop.
Now, my last days here, I glance around my old apartment and to the pile of boxes I’ve begun to tape closed. The apartment Rachel and I shared for years. I know the creak of my bedroom door no matter how much I oil it. I know the noisy hours, and know that I’ll wake up when our neighbors turn on the shower on the other side of my bedroom wall. My other wall was where I could always hear my best friend and her now-husband heatedly fucking on the other side. I know this apartment, every detail of it, and what it’s been through (like leaks and cracks in the mirrors) for the past few years. But now my lease is up and I have to leave.
So it’s Friday night, and it’s just me and these boxes.
I take a sip of wine and wonder why it looks so spacious without my clutter, and why it also looks so worn without the little details that enhanced it—sort of like makeup?
I have a thousand good memories here. Some bad too, like the death of our neighbor. But despite my sadness, there’s a feeling of certainty that there is nothing more for me here. I’m making a change. A positive change. Turning a new page. Changing my scenery.
This one-year lease will give me time to save up more money to buy my own place. I want to lay down roots and I want to make a home without waiting for someone else to want to be in it with me.
I want to be happy. I want to feel complete.
* * *
After all those weeks packing boxes, I finally move into my new building on a hot July day.
It’s said that home is where the heart is, and the big window facing the west and the spacious closet just for me have already made my heart soar.
I walk into my new apartment, blinded by the sunlight streaming through the windows, hardly believing this incredible place is mine. I stalk to the window and stare at the view I will stare out at on many future mornings. Beautiful neighboring buildings, clean streets, flying fl
ags at the foot of a school and a park. The nearby Loop. I head to the closet and admire the numerous racks, empty and waiting for my shoes, accessories, and clothes. A sense of incredible amazement permeates every pore in my body as I look around, seriously happy and lightheaded.
Ohmigod! I’m home.
Home for now.
Rachel sent Saint’s two corporate drivers to help load, transport, and unload the boxes. By 5 p.m., my friends have helped me open most of them, and I’ve even made my bed.
I get a call from Trent. Although we’re still on a break, he keeps making attempts to see me or stay in touch. I tell him I’m moving in today and that I can’t meet him until later. I expected him to offer to help, but instead he says he’ll call me when I’m done. I miss you, he says.
I set my phone down and for some reason, end up checking the last text I got from Tahoe. Eons ago, it seems.
I haven’t seen him since I went to his apartment. But I asked Rachel how he was, and she told me his cast was removed, and that he’s been spending most of his lacrosse games in the penalty box.
When I remember that, and the way we parted, I accidentally knock over a soda can.
“Fuck.” I clean the soda up from the floor and throw the can away, then peer down at the dark, sticky stain on my shirt.
“Oh, look at that,” Wynn says as she peers out the window.
I’m really not interested in whatever she’s looking at. I’m too busy heading to the bathroom to clean up the mess I made. I try running water over the spot and then patting it dry with a towel. It’s not perfect, but it’s moving day so it will have to do.
I step back out into the living room when I spot a tall guy with a red baseball cap in my apartment. He’s carrying a huge box and a dozen bags from Whole Foods, all of which he sets down on the counter.
“You are a dream,” Wynn gushes as she signals to the Whole Foods bags. “We’re starving.”
I approach with a frown. “I didn’t order—” My words cut off when the tall guy with the cap turns to look at me.
They trail off when intense blue eyes meet mine under the rim of the cap.