Chapter 6
Six
Jace
“I can’t stay here!”
I’m tired.
Wet.
Pissed that I came home to an inch of water in the hallway and even more pissed that it was originating from Marie’s freshly refurbished unit.
I don’t want to think of the damage to the condos on the next floor down.
Don’t want to think about what other hidden problems may be lurking in her place, ready to fuck up her life.
I just want to change my clothes, collapse into bed, and sleep for the next ten hours without interruption.
I know I’ll be lucky to get five.
DC was a shit show. London was no better. And when I came back to California, I got to face off with several unhappy board members.
The share price.
It’s always the fucking share price.
Which means that my pet project, one of the few things I’ve been clinging to as my business grew and the small details slipped further and further out of my day-to-day control, is on the chopping block.
When profits decline, projects that don’t make a lot of money—that will likely never make a lot of money but are something I’m passionate about for the greater good—get cut.
That’s the reality.
Before Genen-core was publicly traded, it wasn’t.
I could put resources and funding toward things that were important to me.
That could be life-changing to others.
Not that our products aren’t helpful.
It’s just…I have a dream to do serious work on diseases that are overlooked, like endometriosis and POTS and MS.
Diseases that my mom had.
Who would have reacted exactly the same way at the order I just issued to Marie.
Which is why I’m not impatient—though I am tired and wet and ready to pass out—when I say, “Cookie, your condo is under several inches of water right now. It’s late and the restoration guys are going to be working”—right on cue, an industrial vacuum turns on, echoing through the walls—“all night. Just sleep in my guest room, and we’ll deal with whatever we have to deal with in the morning.”
She opens her mouth, and I feel it, the sliver of impatience, of resentment at having to have this battle now, when my life is complicated and messy and I’m fucking tired.
I hate it.
Hate the feelings it invokes.
The guilt.
“Up to you,” I say carefully, catching the strands of that frustration and setting the bag we’d packed with some of her dry clothes on the floor by my front door. “The guest room is the first door on the left. There’s a shower in there with towels, if you want to use it. Feel free to help yourself to anything in the kitchen.”
I turn for the hall, and wet socks leaving footprints on the hardwood, walk to my bedroom.
Once inside the closed door, I lean back against the wood and sigh. Then I strip down, shoving my wet clothes in the hamper before I jump into the shower.
Even as I’m shampooing my hair, I hear my phone buzzing.
And it continues to go off as I rinse it out, as I soap up, as I crank off the water and dry my body.
Christ.
I wrap my towel around my waist, pick my phone up from the counter and scroll through the messages, hoping that they’ll be nothing important, even as I know they are.
Dumb hope.
It’s why I’m pulling on a pair of sweats and a tee, padding out on bare feet to the kitchen.
Food first.
I need sustenance to make it through what will, no doubt, be several more trying hours.
I pour a bowl of cereal, start shoveling it into my mouth, and only then do I allow myself to look toward the door.
The bag is gone.
I sigh, shake my head, pull out my laptop, and start putting out fires even as I’m silently cursing stubborn fucking women.
Screech!
I jerk my head up at the sound of hinges that need oiling—considering the guest room in my place is rarely used—and my gaze goes down the hall.
There’s a sliver of light and footsteps and…
Christ, she’s beautiful.
Shining brown hair curling softly around her shoulders, face scrubbed clean of makeup, cheeks pink from what I presume is her time in the hot shower?—
And that’s not helpful.
Because then I’m thinking about her taking a shower.
I’m thinking about her being naked in said shower and?—
She falters slightly, missing a step.
Probably because I’m staring at her like she’s something I want to devour.
Lush curves encased in silky black pajama pants, a gray tank peeking out from beneath a black hoodie. Simple clothes…but on that tempting body? They’re sin personified.
“You stayed,” I say and manage to do it sounding relatively normal.
At least it gets her moving again, feet clad in fuzzy white socks moving soundlessly on the floor.
Her nose wrinkles. “Turns out that you’re right.”
The acerbic tone makes me smile. “How’s it feel admitting that?”
“Like chewing glass instead of bubblegum.”
I laugh then push up from my stool. “You hungry?”
“No,” she says, “I’m fine.” Except the last word is drowned out by her stomach growling.
I laugh again. “Liar.” Then, before she can protest, I open a cabinet and pull out a bowl. “I’ve been out of town all week so the situation in my fridge is kind of dire, but I have milk and plenty of cereal.” I tug open the pantry door, gesture at the boxes on the shelf.
Silence is my only response.
And when I process that, I spin back to face her, see that her mouth has dropped open.
“Holy processed sugar, Batman,” she murmurs. “Do you have a thing against real food?”
“This is real food.”
She shifts by me, giving me a hint of that floral scent. I know it’s not from the products in my spare bathroom, so it must just be…her.
Flowers and spice.
“Frosted Sugar O’s?” She pulls out the box, turns it so she can read the nutritional label. “Oh! Only one-hundred-and-twenty percent of your daily recommended serving of sugar. For a half cup. Wow, what densely packed nutrition! However can your body need anything else?”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re a smart ass?” I ask, snagging the box and refilling my bowl.
Sugar or not, I’m fucking hungry.
And there’s nothing better than cereal at night.
“Oh, all the time,” she says, bending over, searching the shelves, and pulling out…Jesus Christ, a box of the healthy cereal the girl who buys my groceries threw in a couple months back—one that I’ve never opened.
I shake my head.
But it’s mostly so I don’t swat that sweet ass of hers, just to see how she’d respond.
She pushes by me, and I hear the rattle of cereal hitting the porcelain bowl, turn to face her. She’s eyeing my carton of milk like it’s the spawn of Satan.
“It’s not oat or almond or some shit,” I mutter.
Her mouth tips up. “You said your fridge was empty, I’m checking to see if it’s expired.”
“It’s not.”
“I’ll be the judge of that, thank you very much.”
It’s her smile that does it—prideful, mischievous, a hint of sweet.
It’s her smile that unravels everything.