Chapter 20
So fucking good, I mumble to myself. Frustrated.
A hum of some sort tore me from the best dream of my goddamn life and dropped me back into reality, without even a pat on the ass. Dream Morgan, naked and sweat-soaked, had her lips around me in my office.
My first instinct is to fucking decimate whatever made that noise—and still is making that noise. But I’m a logical man with priorities.
So I ignore it, instead rolling over to tug my delicious girlfriend into me. Maybe I can convince her to pick up where her dream-self left off. But instead of finding her soft, lush body on her side of the bed, my hand touches cold, empty sheets.
The humming stops right as my eyes crack open, confirming that, yes, Morgan is gone. So much for reenacting that dream. Maybe later. Not maybe—definitely.
Groaning into my empty room, I roll back over, reaching for my phone. But my hand stills when I spy a note and a pink, lacy thong. My fingers don’t waste a second, grappling for both, like they do with anything concerning Morgan.
NOTE
As a man, the phrase warm and fuzzy hardly comes to mind. But this note… Warm and fucking fuzzy is the only way to describe the feeling. I may be half asleep, but my girl’s got me grinning ear-to-ear, all thanks to a piece of paper. And a thong I remember clear as day from last night.
Placing the note back on the nightstand, the humming restarts, coming straight from my phone.
Frustration surges again, that warm, fuzzy feeling dissipating from unadulterated, goddamn annoyance. It’s probably the investors. They were a little pissed when I officially turned down their purchase offer last night, signing off with a, “We’ll let you sleep on it, Mr. Park.”
It was a reasonable offer, but not good enough to walk away from my business—the one I built from the ground up—and everything it provides. And now there’s Morgan to think about. Yeah, she’s an independent woman who don’t need no man, but I’ll be damned if I don’t give her immovable security and stability.
I need her to know, without a doubt, that no matter what happens, my home is her home. My money is her money. Hell, my whole life is hers, and it will be right here waiting for her when she gets back from Seoul.
The hum cuts off. Thank God.
Then it starts again.
Stops.
Starts.
Stops.
Starts.
Dammit.
Worry tags itself into the melee. Regardless of how persistent investors claim to be, they wouldn’t spam-call like a pissed-off girlfriend.
Shit, my girlfriend. What if it’s Morgan?
The thought has me snatching the phone, clearing the sleep from my eyes to see if it’s her. What if she’s stuck somewhere? What if she needs me, and I slept through...seven missed calls...from fucking Jina.
And just like that, worry tags out, and frustration back in.
I release my panicked breath and answer the phone. But the word hello can’t leave my mouth before Jina’s yelling in my ear.
In my groggy state, it takes me a minute to understand what she says, my brain hearing , “blah blah blah, Morgan, blah blah, at coffee shop, blah, Kelsey, blah blah blah, she knows.”
“Who knows what?” grumbles out of me, trying to remember the day and year.
Jina shouts then, “OPPA. KELSEY TOLD MORGAN YOU TWO HAD A FLING THIS PAST NEW YEAR’S.”
What the absolute fuck? A switch made of anxiety, fear, and anger whips my ass into motion, jumping out of bed faster than any man alive.
Running around my room like an idiot on fire, trying to get ready, I listen as Jina explains everything. “I’m sorry, Oppa . Even if I’d known, I never would’ve expected Kelsey to say—”
“We didn’t have a fling, Jina,” I rush out. “But something happened because I’m a fucking idiot. John...interrupted.”
Jina scoffs through the phone. “Oh my God. Is that why he was so pissy for the rest of New Year’s Eve? Dammit, Oppa .”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck.
“You’re sorry?” she snaps. “I was hoping he’d… Never mind. But that doesn’t explain why Kelsey would lie about it.”
Pulling on a shirt, I say, “That’s what she does, Jin. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened.”
“What? What do you mean?”
Bracing a hand on the closet door, my fingers drum against the wood, contemplating whether or not to finally divulge the truth—to ruin a years-long friendship.
Until I hear a fervent “Ugh” on the other side of the phone. “If you don’t tell me right now, I swear I’ll never talk to you again. And you know I keep my promises. Just like you.”
Fucking little sisters…
“Okay,” I force out. “With every potential something with someone, Kelsey finds a way to ruin it. Either with annoyance, stalking, or, in this instance, goddamn lies. And before you ask, yes. I’ve had her blocked on everything for months, which not only makes it infuriating but also creepy as shit.”
Silence. “How long?”
“Since your freshman year of college.”
More silence. “Does John know?” she asks, quiet hurt in her voice.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, knowing I’m about to hurt her even more. “Yes, but—”
Her hard scoff interrupts. “I know the two of you probably had some self-sacrificing, bullshit reasons to keep this from me, but we’ll discuss it later. Right now, you need to focus on damage control. I don’t know why you didn’t tell Morgan earlier—frankly, I don’t fucking care—but you need to fix it. And I’ll fix the Kelsey shit.” She hangs up with a clipped, “Bye.”
Damage control—I can do that. Find some way to lessen the blow I was supposed to land. Some way to explain to Morgan that I never meant to keep this from her for this long. Hell, I was going to tell her this morning, all of it planned out to the T—sex, cuddles, coffee, Kelsey.
Shaking my head, I catch my disheveled reflection in the mirror, and a goddamn mess stares right back. Shorts at my ankles, mismatched socks, one inside out, and my shirt on backwards. My hair sticking up like I jammed a finger in an outlet, and John’s payback shiner ringing around my left eye. To top it off, a smear of toothpaste clings to the corner of my mouth, holding on for dear life. Me, too, toothpaste. Me, too.
Did I just relate to toothpaste?
I’m so fucked.
***
Pacing around my living room for the twelfth minute straight, my grip tightens around the rough stems of the sunflower bouquet—my sad attempt at damage control. Desperate to find something, I booked it to the store, stopping in my tracks when I saw them.
They reminded me of her in that yellow sundress, and the day she opened up to me. That same night, she opened up to herself, too, stepping into actual confidence for the first time.
God, she was beautiful that night, and I swear her beauty grows every day. Each morning, when I open my eyes and see her, bam— brought to my fucking knees. The love I feel for her filling every inch of me, I damn near explode.
Dread knots in my stomach, tightening with the creeping fear that Morgan might leave and I’ll never wake up beside her again. Never, one day, tell her how much I love her, all because I waited too long to talk.
And the worst part is, I get it.
She spent years with a prick unwilling to see, talk to, and feel for her. Unwilling to care. I can only imagine the number of lies the asshole told her, the omissions he kept to himself.
And now I’m just like him…
Regardless of my intention to tell her, I omitted the truth, and its weight hits harder than a John punch to the gut. My head spins, and my empty stomach twists into tighter knots.
I know this feeling—panic attack.
My blood thrums in my ears as my chest tightens like a vice, my lungs shrinking by the second. I look around the room. Compared to most homes, it’s huge, but right now, it feels like the size of Mandu’s dog crate.
Shit. I need to get out of here.
My body acts on its own, and before I know it, I’m on the balcony, one hand white-knuckling the railing, the other crushing the sunflowers in a death grip, their stems cracking. One even breaks in half.
A dry, cynical laugh leaves my throat. I can’t even buy fucking flowers without destroying them, just like I probably destroyed what I have with Morgan. Heavy and thick self-reproach drowns me, spiking the panic like its own special kind of drug.
“Fuck!” I yell, loud and raw, chucking the sunflowers as far as I can. My hands come back to rest on the railing, my chest heaving even harder as shame joins my trainwreck of emotions. If I don’t get a grip now, I’ll start gasping like a fucking fish out of water.
So, I do what I do best—train. Twenty jumping jacks, twenty squats, twenty pushups. Repeat.
Until my heart rate and breathing sync. Until the rising tide of fear and anger’s demented lovechild slowly and painfully subsides, my stomach settling. Until I hear footsteps behind me and a honeyed voice I could easily listen to all day and night.
“Are you…” Morgan says slowly, coming into view. I stop mid-jumping-jack and watch as she looks at me, then over the railing at the sunflowers, raising a brow at their scattered mess. “…okay, baby?”
Am I okay? No. But I don’t want to make this about me, and—wait. Did she just call me baby?
A woman about to dump her schmuck of a boyfriend wouldn’t be calling him baby, right? This is a good sign, but if I’m going to lift my head and face her, I need to hear her say it again.
So, through my heavy breathing, I pant, “Sorry, what? I didn’t hear you.”
Dropping her purse and grocery bag to the balcony floor, Morgan rises up on her toes and runs a hand through my hair, smoothing it down. Another good sign. “I said, Are you okay, baby? ”
When the baby reaches my ears, my lungs fully expand again, her sweet air filling them to the brim. My own personal paper bag.
She adds, “You look like you’re about to implode.”
What a great way to describe it. She’s so smart.
Catching my breath, my eyes meet hers, finding worry etched into every line of her face.
“Yeah, I’m good, I just...” My voice trails off, gaze flicking warily towards the house. Last thing I want is a scalpel-bound audience for this conversation.
“Michelle left,” Morgan says, running her hand through my hair again, putting yet another thought at ease before urging me on. “You just what, Jiho?”
My eyes move back to hers, air catching in my throat. “I just need to talk to you about…something that’ll be hard to hear.”
Morgan stiffens and looks away, her hand dropping from my hair, balling into a fist. And my good sign just turned into a bad one.
“I know, so do I,” she mutters. “But I have a feeling it’s the exact same thing. Guarantee Jina called you and not your mom. Your sister’s a terrible liar.”
“She really is,” I agree, standing straighter as my hands grip the railing again and Morgan moves beside me.
As scared shitless as I am, I keep my eyes on her face. But she’s looking at my hands—my two anxiety tells. So incredibly smart. I relax them, wanting her to face this head-on with me, and that means eye contact.
Only when her brown eyes flick to mine, the gold in them shining in the morning light, do I say the words that might damn us. “About Kelsey… She lied. She always fucking lies. We never had a fling, but,” I inhale, “we kissed on New Year’s Eve. And—”
“There’s an and,” Morgan breathes, looking at the hillside view, her fists unfurling only to tightly squeeze the railing.
As if responding to that squeeze, my index finger starts tapping against the metal. “Yeah, baby, there’s an and.”
“Well then,” she says with a sigh, eyes closing, “let’s hear it.”
The panic rises again, inching its way toward my throat, but I swallow it down.
Morgan’s still here, waiting and listening. It’s now or never. “And I was shit-faced and depressed, and she was there and willing. Things escalated, but John found us before anything happened and literally punched some goddamn sense back into me.”
A smirk kicks up a corner of her mouth, her eyes opening and finding my purple shiner. “You two punch each other a lot.”
The little dig relaxes my panic’s chokehold enough to say with a shrug, “It’s our love language.”
Morgan’s smirk turns into a smile. For a moment, she’s quiet, only searching my face before she shuffles closer, her hand meeting my back. Good sign, again.
“Thank you for telling me,” she says, her voice soft but firm. “For what it’s worth, I’ve always known Kelsey is a pathological liar. I think I tried to be kind to her in the hope she wouldn’t end up like the rest of her terrible, psycho family. Guess it was false hope.”
Morgan’s so… calm. While I stand here, feeling like my anxiety grew legs and arms, ran to the kitchen, grabbed the biggest knife it could find, and stabbed me through the chest. And now, she’s the only one who can remove it for me.
Fucking talk, Jiho. “Are you mad? Are you going to leave me?” Smooth.
She gives me a look of pure you’ve got to be kidding me , and I barely have time to brace myself before she lets go of all things calm.
“Of course I’m mad. Actually, I’m livid,” Morgan snaps, her voice sharp enough to cut. She jabs a finger toward the grocery bag. “My period came early, and I swear to God, Jiho, I am doing everything in my power not to rip you apart right now. I wanted to march in here and launch those tampons at your stupid head, but I need them.” Her chest rises and falls with quick, furious breaths, her hands trembling before they strangle the railing again. “Not to mention, I walk in to find my boyfriend post-panic attack—yes, I know what a panic attack looks like—because of some bullshit he kept from me. And why would I leave you? You’re an idiot, but you’re my idiot.”
Her words hit me square in the chest, knocking the goddamn wind out of me. You’re my idiot. Like an idiot worth keeping. An idiot worth fighting for. An idiot she still wants, even after all this.
I suck my lips between my teeth, trying my damned hardest not to smile, because rage-ball Morgan is cute as hell. And, holy fuck, this is not the time.
But she sees it. Of course, she sees it.
Her eyes narrow to slits. “Are you seriously smiling right now?”
Abort. Abort.
My hands fly up in immediate surrender. “No. Nope. Definitely not smiling.”
Releasing the poor railing, she crosses her arms—so tightly I’m surprised she doesn’t snap in half—and pops a hip. As a reward for making it this far, I give my eyes exactly one second to take in the curve of it before I lock onto her gaze.
“Good,” she bites out. “Then use that ridiculously handsome face of yours to explain why you didn’t tell me about your make-out session with Kelsey.”
Make-out session with Kelsey.
Jesus. That makes me want to vomit.
But I don’t because I’m a grown-ass man. A grown-ass man who can accept the consequences of his actions, ragey, menstruating girlfriend and all. “Would you believe me if I said it was a combined matter of bad timing and forgetting?”
Morgan scoffs, loud and pointed, dripping in exasperation. Her arms tighten even more over her chest, her body practically vibrating. Oh yeah, she’s fucking rage-pissed.
“I’d believe you, alright,” she snaps, “because I trust you a hell of a lot more than I trust Kelsey Bradshaw. But tell me, Jiho—how the actual fuck do you forget to tell me something like this?”
My head tilts at the question, brows pinching as I turn to face her. To me, the answer’s simple.
Sheer determination replaces every ounce of panic and dread. I’m a man on a mission to make this woman understand precisely what she means to me.
I love her.
And those three words have any semblance of self-control slipping free.
And that’s when it hits me—I don’t want self-control with Morgan. I don’t want to filter myself. I don’t want to sugarcoat my feelings or tread carefully like I’m walking on eggshells. Not with her. Not with the one person who sees me— really sees me—and still chooses to stay.
Because she’s it. The only thing that matters.
I close our distance, invading her space because she’s already in every part of mine. Keeping my voice steady, raw, honest—the only way I know how to give her this—I say, “Because she means absolute shit to me, Morgan.”
Morgan’s nostrils flare. Her jaw tightens. But she doesn’t step back. Doesn’t tell me to stop.
So, I push forward. “My sexy, smart girlfriend moves in with me, and all I want to do is spend time with you, talk to you, keep you in my bed every second of every damn day. And somehow, when you consume every corner of my mind, I’m expected to remember someone as insignificant as Kelsey Bradshaw? Impossible.”
Her arms stay crossed, her weight shifting between her feet. But her lips part, like she wants to say something but can’t find the words.
Good. Because I’m not done.
“I don’t want to waste space in my head for people who don’t fucking matter. You think I walk around holding onto shit like that?” I shake my head, stepping even closer until there’s nothing but a breath of air between us. “No, baby. I forget it the second it happens. My brain’s too busy memorizing the way your voice changes when you’re sleepy. Or how you laugh with your whole body when you think something’s really funny. Or how I can’t breathe when you look at me, like you’re looking at me right now.”
Her brow furrows slightly, but she doesn’t move away. “And what look is that?” she challenges, her voice quieter now, shoulders dipping.
I lift a hand, brushing my fingers along her jaw, angling her face so I’m all she can see. “Like you want to believe me, but you’re still scared to.”
She lets out a shaky breath, her eyes flicking away before locking back onto mine. There it is—the war inside her. But I won’t let her fight it alone.
I press my forehead to hers, my hands cradling her face, thumbs stroking over the apples of her cheeks.
As my touch relaxes her brow, I whisper between us, “It’s only you, Morgan. Everything else? Irrelevant.”
Her arms finally slacken, falling to her sides as her eyes flutter up at me. She breathes a single word. “Why?”
“Because,” I say, my heart stuttering as I move a hand to her chin, tilting her face closer to mine. “I love you.”