CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
S TEFANIE
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S UNLIGHT STREAMED THROUGH the curtains, its rays warming my face as I stirred. I stretched, limbs sluggish, body deliciously sore, the kind of sore that reminded me just how thoroughly Julian had worshipped me the night before.
Or maybe he’d punished me, because my pussy sure felt like it had been spanked and drilled. Worshipped or punished? I didn’t know. But I wanted more. I turned onto my side, expecting to see Julian lying next to me.
I was surprised to find him gone. But he hadn’t left me completely alone. In true JC fashion, lying beside me on the pillow was the large teddy bear he’d given me. Pinned to the little red heart it held was a note, scrawled in his handwriting.
I’ve put your robe, bra, and panties on the bed for you. Hop in the shower and then join me in the kitchen. Bring your phone.
A slow smile crept across my face. I sat up, the sheet slipping down my chest, and turned to the side, letting my legs dangle off the bed for a second. Then I stood and stretched, a yawn escaping me as I stared around my bedroom.
My gaze narrowed when I noticed three large designer suitcases near my dresser. Julian! I waited for a wave of anger to come over me at the audacity of this man. It didn’t come. I was okay with it. Red flag. This time for me.
I stared at the items on the bed. A pink robe with cherry blossoms on it, along with a pink and black panty and bra set. The tags were still attached. I lifted the tag and stared at the size. My size .
Another red flag. Or perhaps it wasn’t red. Perhaps I was truly color blind, and all the flags Julian had been waving had been green all along. Some bright green and some dark green, but still green all the same.
As I ran my hand over the cherry blossom design, I wondered when he’d had time to go out and purchase this, plus get some clothing from home. My gaze moved to the clock beside my bed. Shit !
It was already noon! I never slept in. Never! I had an internal alarm clock that made me wake up early every morning, whether I wanted to or not. It seemed Julian’s cock had shut that alarm off.
I hurried to the bathroom and took care of business. After a quick shower, I styled my curls up into a high, puffy ponytail and slicked my edges back. I brushed my teeth before applying my face cream, then lotioned up my body.
I decided against any makeup, just sliding on a coat of clear lip gloss. Then I headed back into my bedroom and reached for the lacy panties he’d purchased. After pulling the tags off, I slid them on.
I was pretty sure he’d gone through my lingerie drawer to see what size I wore before going out and buying these. Again, I should be mad, or at least wary of the things he did. I kept waiting for that wariness to come. It didn’t.
I hated it when men assumed things or took it upon themselves to do things for me without me asking them to do it. Or without at least putting in the work to see what I liked, before they just did whatever they wanted.
I’d once had a man who I’d only gone out on two dates with, decide that he wanted to buy something for my daughter, since I’d told him that I had one child, a daughter. He never asked me how old she was.
We never discussed what she liked or didn’t like. On our next date, he showed up with a pretty pink box filled with baby clothes. The cutest little clothes ever. But India was twelve at the time.
When I asked him why he thought I had a newborn, he told me it was because of the pudge in my stomach. That motherfucker almost got slapped right then and there. I started working out harder the next day.
Even though we hadn’t gone on another date, at least he’d inspired me to up my workout game. That’s only one of the reasons I didn’t like men assuming I needed something. Usually, they ended up doing the exact opposite of what I wanted.
It was one thing to want to do something for me, but it was another to do whatever you wanted without first doing your homework to see what I liked, what I enjoyed, what I needed. I was fine with surprises.
But you should at least have some basic understanding of me before you assumed I’d enjoy jumping out of a plane. I had a guy take me on a skydiving date even after he asked if I was afraid of heights, and I told him yes.
My Julian wouldn’t have done that. I pulled my bra on, smiling slightly. I couldn’t get mad at Julian because the things he did were things I actually wanted. I posted this cherry blossom lingerie set on my Pinterest just last month, noting how cute it was.
And he’d gotten it for me. That was proof that this man had studied me. He didn’t just have good intentions. He made sure his intentions aligned with what I liked. I know most women would see that as a red flag.
Most women would say Julian went too far into creepy territory, but would praise another man for at least trying. It was the thought that counted, after all. I was tired of thoughts. I needed action.
In my opinion, that was why so many men these days did the bare minimum. It was because we praised them for that mediocrity. That praise left them under the impression that they didn’t have to elevate and do more.
I liked that Julian studied me. I liked that he asked me questions. I like that he remembered what I said and what he studied. I loved that he applied it in ways that made me happy.
For some reason, it took some weight off my shoulders. To me, it made him seem even more dependable. If times got hard, I wouldn’t have to tell him what I needed. He’d already know and he’d handle it, no questions asked.
My husband hadn’t been that type of man. He would see stuff in our home that needed repairing and wouldn’t fix it or try to get someone else to fix it. I’d grown up with a father who hadn’t needed to be told to do stuff around the house.
If he saw a problem, he handled it. And if my mom did have to tell him to do it, best believe she never had to tell him twice. I got married thinking that was how all marriages worked. I was wrong.
My husband died, leaving me to believe that men these days wanted their wives to have stay-at-home mom vibes while also working a job and providing fifty/fifty for the household. The only thing my husband wanted to do was go to work and come home to relax.
While I was expected to get up, have his clothes ready, and breakfast prepared. Oh, and he only liked home-cooked lunches. So I prepared his lunch for work too, only to find out from some of his receipts later that he’d been going out for lunch and taking his mistress with him.
Where had the food gone that I’d prepared for him? Then I had to go to work each day and come home and have dinner ready by the time he got home. The house had to be kept clean. If something needed to be repaired, he wanted me to call my dad to help or find someone to take care of it.
Now that I thought about it, I’d been foolish as hell for allowing that man to treat me that way. But while it was happening, I kept telling myself that he loved me and that he would change.
I told myself that if I kept reminding him that I needed help with things, he’d eventually catch on. I thought he’d eventually see how much the marriage was draining me and try to help. I mean, wasn’t that what a man was supposed to do for the woman he loved?
Not my man. Me asking for help led to him starting to hit me because he was tired of me nagging. And then he’d apologize profusely, but never change. I stopped nagging to avoid fighting with him.
That only led to him hitting me for every little thing I did that upset him. When I fought back, it made things worse. By then, I’d allowed him to alienate me from my family, and I’d been too ashamed to ask for help.
Then his parents started asking when I was going to have a baby. I was young. I was fresh out of college, just starting my career. But his mother insisted that now was the best time to have a child.
Like a fool, I’d agreed. Then we’d started trying, and failing, trying and failing. He’d made me feel horrible each month when my period came on and I wasn’t pregnant. As if it wasn’t enough that I had horrible periods that lasted much longer than most women and were heavier than most.
But I also had to feel ashamed of myself when I got my period because it was further proof that I was failing as a wife. I’d be in bed, cramping, hating myself because I couldn’t give my husband what he wanted.
And he’d be yelling at me for not being a real woman. Like what the fuck? Then, we got the news that changed my entire life. The news that I thought would end both me and my failing marriage.
Sighing, I slid the robe over my shoulders, remembering that fateful day in the hospital when I’d been told that heartbreaking news. It wasn’t him, it was me. I was the reason we couldn’t get pregnant. Not him.
He didn’t have a low sperm count as I suspected. It was I who had an ovulation disorder and a hormonal imbalance. Turns out, those extra-long and heavy periods were a sign of something bigger.
I didn’t know. How could I have known? When I was younger, my mother had taken me to the doctor because my periods made it hard for me to get out of bed sometimes, because they hurt so badly.
But I’d been given a prescription for pain pills and told that I was a heavy bleeder, and the duration of periods varied. I’d learned at an early age that you couldn’t always believe what doctors told you.
After finding out I couldn’t have a child, the beatings got worse. Instead of suggesting that I take the steps to get healthy and get my hormones balanced, he stopped touching me altogether, saying there was no point in sleeping with me.
It was then that I worked up the courage to leave. I’d planned to escape him and then file for a divorce. I’d even secretly reached out to my mom for help. And she’d helped me come up with a plan to be free of him.
It was a good plan. It would’ve worked. But then he found out about it, and he cried. I’d never seen him cry before. He fed me some bullshit excuses and claimed to love me and my silly ass believed him.
He told me he wanted to be a father so badly and that he wanted us to be a family. And like a fool, I thought having a child would gentle him, would make him happy. So I agreed to adopt a baby.
The first thing I did wrong was believing in that rat bastard. The second thing I did wrong was thinking a child could save a broken marriage. That is never a situation to bring a child into. And had my husband survived that car accident, he would’ve ruined me and India’s lives.
But there was one more thing I did wrong a few months later. And that decision set me on a path that led to me having those skeletons in my closet. I stared at the teddy bear on my bed, my vision blurry from tears I was trying my best to hold back.
What kind of woman would I be today if I hadn’t made those decisions back then? Who would I be if I’d done what my mother told me to escape the clutches of my abuser? Would I still have met Julian?
If so, would I be someone who could love him freely without fearing her past would be revealed? I’ll never have the answers to those questions because the past couldn’t be undone. All I had was right now.
And right now, I wanted to see Julian Cattaneo’s handsome face. I slid my slippers on and grabbed my phone from the nightstand. I was halfway down the hall when the scent hit me. Coffee. Rich, dark, and strong. Just the way I liked it.
I followed the aroma like a woman under a spell and stepped into the kitchen. And there he was. Julian . Standing at the stove, shirtless, wearing only a pair of gray loose-fitting shorts and some white socks. This man loved being shirtless.
I could see why. His hair was damp, the ends curling slightly. The muscles in his broad back flexed with each movement he made. I took a second to appreciate the view before stepping closer. When I got close to him, I came up on my tiptoes and leaned over his shoulder.
“Looks yummy,” I murmured in his ear.
“It’ll be ready in a minute,” he told me.
“I wasn’t talking about the food,” I teased.
He stared over his shoulder at me, eyes wide, and I could’ve sworn there was a slight blush in his cheeks.
“Are you flirting with me, Ms. Adams?”
“What if I am, Mr. Cattaneo?”
He chuckled and stared back down at the stove. “I wasn’t ready for that,” he told me.
Was he acting shy? I loved it.
“Good morning, Mr. Cattaneo,” I told him.
Glancing back at me again, he gifted me with one of his heart-melting smiles.
“Good morning, beautiful. How’d you sleep?”
Without thinking, I leaned closer and kissed his cheek.
“I slept well. Thank you.”
And then I froze. Because what did I just do? I’d kissed this man’s cheek like he was actually my man. I was going with the flow too easily, falling into a routine that screamed a message I wasn’t trying to send.
I could tell he sensed it too because the smile was gone from his face and his eyes. His gaze snapped to mine. Intense. Heated. Surprised . I was doing the opposite of not leading him on. Shit . Before I could step away or mumble something awkward, his voice cut through the moment.
“Don’t overthink it.” His smile returned, but the look in his eyes was still intense. “Sit down and get ready to eat.”
I turned and walked away, my body moving to the table even though my brain was still lagging behind. I’d kissed his cheek. Of course, the act was no big deal. But for me, it felt like a big deal.
The way I’d been behaving this morning felt like a big deal. I’d admitted to myself that I loved Julian Cattaneo. And now my actions were mirroring what I felt inside. But I wasn’t ready for that. Not yet. I slowly sat down at the table.
“You’re still overthinking it,” he called out.
I stared up from the table to find his eyes on me.
“No, I’m not,” I fibbed.
“Little liar,” he said before continuing to prepare the plates.
He brought my plate to me and set it down in front of me. It smelled divine.
“Since it’s already lunch time, I decided on chicken and homemade waffles,” he told me.
“Who taught you how to make chicken and waffles?” I asked, smiling as he drizzled syrup over my food for me.
“My mom. We once went to Atlanta to visit a cousin, and we had chicken and waffles at this little diner. She fell in love with it and has been making it ever since. She once had a cook-off with the mom of one of my cousin’s ex-girlfriends. Her name is Tatianna. Her mom challenged my mom to a fried chicken cook-off.”
“Who won?”
“Tatianna’s mom. But her mom told my mother that her chicken was amazing. The compliment made my mom happy. She’s been trying to perfect her fried chicken ever since. She gets Tati’s mom to taste it and give her advice. If my cousin knew she was still talking to his ex’s mom, he’d have a fucking fit.”
I chuckled. “Your mother sounds like a wonderful woman,” I told him, hoping my voice didn’t sound strained.
“She is. You’ll love her.” He kissed my forehead and moved over to the coffeepot.
I’m sure I would. His mother sounded like a wonderful woman, and I could tell from the way he spoke of her that he loved her dearly. The question was, would she love me? Would she be okay with her precious son dating a woman who was ten years older than him?
And when she found out that woman was me , the mother of her daughter’s roommate, the woman she’d encountered all those years ago, would she accept or reject the idea of having me be a part of her son’s life?
After all, she knew exactly what I’d done to my husband. That hadn’t stopped her from agreeing to allow our daughters to be roommates. But it could make her forbid her son from dating a woman who’d killed her husband on the day he decided to leave her.