Chapter Fifteen
NOAH
W ith an impressive leap, Kitch jumps from the island bench onto the small space in front of the coffee machine. She purrs up at me, her tail held precariously high over my cup. I’ll give her credit for not knocking it, at least. But I shoo her down all the same.
“Psst,” I hiss as I tap her shoulders and guide her off the bench.
Back in my grandmother’s old house, Kitch had right of way in every room. Including the kitchen. I assume it was that way long before she came to me, and I doubt I’ll ever be able to change it. There, she practically ignored me unless she was demanding food, but here, she demands attention. I blame Amira and Ella. For the past week and a half, they’ve coddled the old cat, and I hate to think how she will adjust when we finally return to the big house.
For once this morning, the apartment is quiet. Ella isn’t singing as she does her makeup or tapping away at her computer as she applies for jobs. Amira isn’t berating me for heating milk in the microwave instead of warming it in the jug like you’re ‘supposed to’. Instead, she’s still asleep. I left her curled under the purple sheets, trying to ignore the gentle whimpers her sleeping body released when I peeled myself away. For the first time since I’ve moved in here, we both have the day off work. And with Ella out of the apartment, I’m not sure the right way to behave.
Amira and I have fallen into our roles in an increasingly genuine way, but neither of us has begun to question just how much of it is an act. At least, not to each other. I’ve been questioning it constantly because the longer it goes on, the more it feels like none of it is an act. At least not to me. I just haven’t figured out how to show her yet.
I pour my microwave-heated milk into the coffee mug, watching it swirl with the creamy tan espresso brew. It’s not as pretty as the ones Amira makes, but it will do.
A yawn from across the room startles me as I pick up the steaming cup. Amira stands by the table, arms spread wide. Her hair is scruffy from sleep, pulled into a messy bun on top of her head. The pale pink robe is open, revealing the white lacy singlet she wore to bed and the tiny navy satin shorts.
“I thought I told you not to stare,” she says as her yawn slowly subsides.
“How can I not, Cupcake?”
Scoffing, she pulls the robe around herself and ties the knot in front of her stomach. “I also told you not to call me that.”
I shrug in defiance. I would stop if I thought she genuinely didn’t like it. But her eyes still sparkle a little every time, and no matter how much she tries to fight it, her mouth still tips up into the smallest of smiles.
Amira’s eyes rake over my body, from Kitch circling my feet, up to the stripy purple mug in my hands. “Did you make me coffee?”
No . But her cheeks puff out as she shuffles her feet and plays with the frayed ends of the bow in her robe. “Yes.”
She tips on her heels and practically skips over to take the cup from me. “No one ever makes me coffee. They always say I do it so much better so I should make it for them.”
When she has the drink secure in her grasp, I step back, out of reach before adding, “I did heat the milk in the microwave though.”
Her mouth drops open. And I shouldn’t think bad thoughts but fuck what I wouldn’t give to run my thumb along her lips. To see just what that open mouth of hers would feel like. I have to physically shake away the thought. Despite my very apparent attraction and desire, and a solid handful of increasingly intimate moments, we still haven’t spoken about that morning. Still haven’t had anything that physical happen again. I know we should just talk about it, I know I should just tell her how I feel. And God do I feel bad now for how much grief I gave Cassidy when she struggled to talk to Callum about her feelings. This shit is harder than I thought it would be.
What if she doesn’t want more? What if that moment for her was nothing more than a fleeting experience and not the mind-blowing, life-altering realisation it was for me?
Amira takes a slow, measured sip, and fights to hold in her cringe at my poorly made coffee. “You know what,” she says as she sits in her favourite red chair, “it tastes just as shit as I thought it would, but I don’t even care.”
After another long drink, she places the cup on the table and smiles up at me. “Thank you.”
“It was nothing,” I say, reaching behind me to turn the machine back on and make a coffee of my own. Kitch finally unwinds herself from my legs, and once my coffee—microwave milk and all—is made I head to the table and find her curled in Amira’s lap.
They purr together as Amira scratches behind Kitch’s ears.
“Do you know where Ella is?” I ask as I sit down.
“Her door is open; I don’t think she came home last night.”
I slap my free hand to my sternum in mock astonishment. “The nerve! I feel like a parent ready to lecture my child about the importance of coming home.”
Amira’s gaze turns serious as she reaches for her mug. “Don’t, if she was living with any other of our family members, she actually would receive a lecture. I’m glad we can offer her the freedom.”
“Would she really?”
“I did.” Amira tilts one shoulder up as she finishes her coffee. “A lot of my family, not just my mum and dad but like aunties and uncles and the rest, are not very progressive.”
“That must be hard.”
My own mother was the opposite, she cared less than most, and I was free to come and go as I pleased from a very young age. Too young, probably. My stomach sinks as I wonder what it might have been like to grow up with a parent who paid attention. What Amira has described feels like all too much, but an experience that fell somewhere in the middle might have been nice.
If I ever have a child of my own— if because I haven’t decided if I want to or not—I’d want them to feel comfortable to do their own thing and safe knowing their wellbeing matters to me. Surely, that’s not too hard for a parent to handle. Although, given the current sample pool, maybe it is asking too much.
“My mother was the opposite,” I admit. “She didn’t care what I was doing or who I was with or what time I came home. She didn’t even care if I came home.”
“That must have been almost as hard. I’m sorry.”
As a teen, having a practically absent mother and a very absent father was almost a godsend. I had all the freedom every adolescent kid thinks they deserve. The realisation stung a little as an early adult, but moving to Melbourne gave me the chance to finally let it all go.
With a shrug, I brush off Amira’s pity. “I’m not. The best thing about inheriting the winery was that it forced me to move away from her.”
“Still.” She grabs the now empty coffee mugs and heads for the kitchen. As she stacks them into the dishwasher, Kitch follows her feet.
“Is it breakfast time?” Amira purrs down at the cat. Looking up at me she adds, “Did you feed her yet?”
“I did, but she would probably eat again if you offered. I think that’s why my grandmother named her after the kitchen.”
Amira gasps, stepping back to look down at Kitch’s tabby fur. “That makes so much sense. I wondered where her weird name came from.”
“I am making assumptions, but that’s the most logical one, right? It’s either because of her love of food, or my grandmother thought her fur looked like the horrid 1980s style wooden cabinetry in the kitchen back at home.”
My ears throb at the thought of my grandmother’s old house being home. It’s never felt like it, and now I’ve spent some time here, I can’t imagine going back. It’s so big and empty and … lonely. And the interior design is incredibly dated. It’s my own fault, given I haven’t put any time into making the place feel like mine. It’s still full of my grandmother’s old furniture and nick-nacks, things I know I should get rid of or move into storage. But I’ve never cared enough to make the space my own. Now though, it’s going to suck when it’s time to move back.
“Either way, it’s cute. Even if it is a little unusual.” Amira scoops Kitch into her arms and carries her to the small patch of sun by the window. She wobbles as she sits down, holding Kitch in her lap as she leans against the side wall with her legs stretched out. In the sun, Kitch arches her back in a stretch before curling up. “She loves this spot. We should get her a climbing tree. Do you have one at home?”
“No, I … I never thought about it. Everything she has came from my grandmother. I don’t know enough about cats to know if anything is missing.”
“Where does she sit when you are there?”
“On the back of the couch. In the sun.” Now I’ve been forced to think about it, I’m sure the cat would appreciate one of those tall frames. “I’ll get her one. As long as you don’t mind having it in the room?”
“Noah, the only thing I like about having you here, is having Kitch here. She can have whatever furniture she wants.”
Something deep in my chest cracks a little. Maybe she meant it as a joke; it would go with our typical banter-style communication. But still, I can’t help but wonder if deep down she really means it. If she’s desperate for this whole arrangement to be over.
Amira seems oblivious to my internal breakdown, patting around in the pockets of her robe. “Where’s my phone, I’m ordering her a tree.”
Kitch falls from her lap as Amira stands. The cat’s claws catch in the tie of her robe, making it fall open to reveal her pyjama top once more. It barely hides the shape of her breasts, the firm peak of her nipple underneath the seam between the lace trim and the soft satin. I don’t mean to stare, especially when she’s asked me not to. But it’s like trying not to be distracted by the Christmas lights while driving. I can’t help it.
I swallow down the lump rapidly forming in my throat and dart my tongue along my lower lip before dragging my gaze back up to Amira’s face. Her cheeks are bright pink, but instead of covering up, she drops her eyes down to her breasts then up to me. She shimmies her shoulders, making the robe drop away further.
“You’re such a man.”
“Can you blame me, Cupcake?”
“Ugh.” Amira scoffs as she readjusts her robe, but the hot pink of her blush lingers on her cheeks.
Taking a chance, I cross the room.
“We should … talk,” I all but growl as I move closer. Amira backs against the wall, and I shove my hands into my pockets to keep them to myself. I lean into her, careful not to let our bodies touch. “Because I cannot handle this much longer.”
“Handle what?” Amira’s gasp is breathy and reminds me of how she moaned my name while she rode my hand. I want to hear it again, over and over and over. Blood flows south at the thought.
“Holding myself back. Keeping myself from touching you, showing you how deeply yours I am and always will be.”
Her messy bun flops against the wall as she shakes her head. “Ella’s not here.”
“No.”
“So you don’t have to pretend—”
“Don’t have to pretend what, Cupcake? Nothing about this is fake to me.” My heart thumps so hard it might leap out of my chest. I let my head drop, resting my forehead on the wall as I suck in a deep breath. Then, with a groan, I push my body into hers, grinding my firm length into her before pulling away. “That is not fake.”
She’s silent, staring down at the fraction of a gap between us. And fuck, was that too much? I take a step back, but reach between us to tilt Amira’s chin up to face me.
“Why do you think I agreed to this, Amira? I’m obsessed with you, and I never had the fucking balls to show it. I took the first chance I saw to be close to you. But I’m done messing about, and I know you feel this too.”
“It’s not real though,” she protests. “It’s just … a by-product of living together. Sharing a bed.”
“No, Cupcake. This is very real to me, and I need you to understand that. If this is all fake to you, fine. Use me however you need. As your wedding date, as your boyfriend, as your own personal sex toy. I will lap up every second I get to spend with you, but you need to know why I’m here. I said yes for very selfish reasons.”
I brush my thumb against her lower lip, holding her chin steady and leaning in.
“Very. Selfish,” I whisper into her mouth. “And for very selfish reasons, I’m going to need you to tell me to stop now.”
“Don’t.”