Chapter 22
22
DAISY
A week passes in a blur. My first five days as a real-deal teacher are over, and it took me all of my Saturday to recoup half of the energy I spent.
Bryce hasn’t mentioned what happened the other night at all. Not the next morning or the following one. It was a relief not to have her sit me down and call me a creep before kicking me out, but then again, she’d have to be home sometime to speak with me. And I haven’t seen her since the night of our hiking trip.
I’ve missed her company, and I can’t seem to shake my disappointment at the realization she doesn’t feel the same.
Every evening this week, she’s been gone doing what I can only assume is her part-time tattooing gig. I’ve spent them all alone, only finally reaching out to Kiki yesterday for some company. We fell asleep mid- Fifty Shades marathon until we were woken by what I swear was Bryce’s fist slamming into my closed bedroom door at midnight.
She hasn’t said anything about the spying or the fist slamming thus far this morning, even with me staring at her across the kitchen table like a crazy person and slurping from my juice box. Sure, she’s given me cool, distanced looks here and there, but in all honesty, I’m sensing a bit of an angry vibe brewing. I can only hope it isn’t because of what I’ve done.
“What did you get up to last night?” I ask, done with the silence.
Even beneath her oversized tee, I can see the shifting of her shoulders as she adjusts her position on the dining chair. Lifting her eyes from her phone, she quirks a brow.
“I was working.”
“Until midnight?”
“Why does it matter? Were you waiting for me to get home?”
I bite the straw in my mouth. “No. But your whereabouts are something a girlfriend should know.”
“It’s been a long time since I’ve had one. You’ll have to tell me all of the rules you have for me to follow.”
She’s trying to annoy me. Testing her limits, maybe, to see how much I can take. Excitement sparks in my blood.
“If you want rules, we can make some. I just want to know if you’re going to be home late every night in case I’m asked about something you’ve done and have to keep up appearances. I wasn’t aware house calls took place until the early morning hours.”
A muscle twitches in her cheek as she sets her phone down on the table, the weight of her full attention smacking me right in the face.
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Am I going to be asked about why you’re spending your nights boarded up in your room with another woman while I’m gone?”
The question makes me pause. I knew there was something off about her this morning, but the whip-like tone of her voice is far worse than I’d have expected.
“Is that why you haven’t spoken to me this morning?” I ask, fully aware of how carefully I should tread here .
“No.”
“Then what is the reason?”
“It was Kristen, right?” she asks stiffly.
“Yes. She’s my best friend.”
Bryce hums, shifting her gaze away from me. I inch forward in my chair and lay my palms flat on the small table. She’s not that far from me, but I can’t reach for hands that aren’t available for me, even if I want to take hers and squeeze until she opens up to me.
“Is it not okay if I invite people over? In that case, all you have to do is tell me that. I wouldn’t want you to punch a hole through my door next time.”
I’m already starting to smile when she looks at me again. The ice in her eyes is sharp, though not cutting, and I take that as a good sign.
She scratches her cheek and pulls her hair over her shoulder. It’s loose this morning, even a bit messy as some thin strands stick up near her scalp. It’s like she rolled out of bed and came right to the kitchen this morning, not expecting that I’d be awake as well.
“You can have people over. I just don’t want to look like a fool if you have something going on with another woman,” she says, the words brittle.
“Something going on with who? Kristen? You think me and Kristen are together?” I sputter.
Tension grows in her expression. “Should I think differently? I came home late at night and learned there was another woman in your room while the door was shut.”
“I don’t know whether to be offended that you think I’d offer to enter into a fake relationship with you while already being in a real one or curious as to why you didn’t just barge into my room to see for yourself.”
“I’m not the barging type.”
“Just the banging type, then? ”
The innocent question drops to the tabletop like a boulder. An awkward giggle bubbles from my lips, and Bryce’s attention zeroes in on my mouth. It’s impossible not to watch hers right back, mesmerized by the way they part around laboured breaths.
Now . . . despite my lack of love life as of recently, I haven’t exactly forgotten what sexual tension feels like. It’s one of those things that becomes ingrained into the core of your memory. A sensation that may feel distant and foreign at times but is quick to flip into recognition during moments like these, where you consider pouncing at someone like a wild beast.
At least, that’s what I think.
I can only speak for myself with absolute certainty, but from the tightening of my lungs and the moisture soaking into my panties as I stare at Bryce’s mouth, there’s no doubt I’m feeling a startling attraction to her.
My fake girlfriend.
This isn’t the first time either. Far from it after what I witnessed the other night and the way my body responded to it. I didn’t sleep at all and went to work with heavy bags beneath my eyes and an irritability that I put all my focus into not showing in front of a classroom of children.
For some reason, I think this is the strongest wave of attraction I’ve fallen prey to. From the sheer effort it’s taking to keep my breaths steady so my lungs don’t shrivel up and the subtle press of my thighs together beneath the edge of the table, it’s safe to say I’m in dangerous territory. It’s worse than the other night, and I’m hopeless to thinking of why that is right now.
Bryce doesn’t appear as affected as I am. If it weren’t for the streaks of red climbing her neck and the strain of her jaw, I would have thought she was simply staring at me.
Her ability to keep a straight face doesn’t seem to matter right now. It’s silly, but I take that as a compliment. Like I’m an exception to her usual facade.
“I don’t refuse anyone when they ask for a tattoo,” she reveals, slowly slipping her eyes up my face. “They ask, and I take my shit and go where they want me whenever they want me.”
“Are they taking advantage of you, then?”
Her brows knit together. “No.”
“So, you’re okay with being out all night every night going house to house? You don’t get tired of getting home late or missing conversations with those around you?” I ramble, my buried irritability seeping through.
“Are you upset with me because I’m gone late, Daisy?”
I avoid eye contact, suddenly feeling small beneath the fierceness of her stare. “No. I just need to know if I should stop leaving the lights on once I’ve gone to bed.”
“You won’t have to. I’ll be home earlier from now on.”
“Don’t feel obligated. I’m a big girl.”
“It’s not obligation. I forgot what it was like to have someone at home waiting for me,” she states, finally looking elsewhere.
Unsure what to say back to that that wouldn’t be too heavy for this moment, I change gears a bit. “Just try to save a day for your newest client.”
Her choppy chuckle is a welcome sound after the previous few minutes. “Any day is yours, Sunshine. Just tell me when and make sure you’re absolutely sure first.”
“You got it.” Smiling softly, I pull my hands back toward me and fold them. “I thought that maybe you’d gone to your parents’ house and spoke to them without me.”
“I’ve been dodging my mother all week. I wanted to talk to you first before I dragged us into that fucking mess for real. Give you one last chance to back out.”
The invisible arms that have been wrapped around my middle for the last few days loosen inch by inch. “I think it’s too late for that. And I want to meet them.”
“You want to meet my parents?” she asks, visibly taken aback .
“Well, not because I think they’re nice people but because I want to make sure they know the way they’ve been treating you isn’t right.”
“My mother is a lot to take in. She’ll curse you out in French simply because she knows you won’t understand, and then she’ll drive her point across in English. I can’t promise that she won’t try to hurt you as a way to get to me. I’m not planning on letting her do that?—”
I interrupt her rambling with a shake of my head and soft words. “I can handle myself. I’m not someone who lets others walk all over me.”
And after missing my chance to stand up for Bryce in Peakside, I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t miss another.
Bryce keeps narrowed, curious eyes on me for a few moments after I’ve spoken. I don’t try to sneak out from beneath them and let her stare for as long as she needs to believe me.
Finally, once I’ve grown a bit fidgety, she leans back in her chair and blinks, shutting down the intense connection.
“What about tonight?”
My eyes bulge. “Tonight?”
“Unless you’re not ready,” she adds, giving me another chance to back out.
Her doubt jabs a sensitive spot inside me. I’ve never been someone with a hard shell, and because of that, yeah, I’m gentle natured. But I’m not afraid to use my voice when need be. I grew up with too many siblings who loved to hear themselves speak not to have grown a backbone over the years. It was that or grow comfortable in the shadows.
Yanking my spine into a straight line, I inject as much power and confidence as I can into my voice.
“I’m ready. I’m your girl, and I’ll make sure they know that you won’t be accepting another from anyone else. Let alone them.”
Disbelief floods her eyes. It’s there and gone so suddenly that I wonder if I made it up, even as I struggle not to chase after it .
I could have clarified that I’m not really her girl . . . but when it sounds so good the way I said it, it would be a waste to change it now.
I’m such a horny freak.
My two-year sex detox has affected me way more than expected. That’s the only excuse I have for why I’m walking half a second slower than Bryce, just so I can catch a glance at the bare curves of her inner thighs as they appear below her short jean skirt when she sways her hips.
My belly is on fire, something forbidden gaining in intensity the more she walks and the higher her skirt shifts and climbs up her butt. I’m being the opposite of respectful right now as I ignore the desire in my blood and look up at the sky, begging for it to swallow me.
Ever since I was smacked in the face by how truly attracted I was to Bryce, I’ve been obsessively aware of her beauty and all the little things about it that won’t seem to let me get one moment of peace.
She’s so pale that every scar and imperfection on her body stands out like it’s been circled in red marker. The thick mass of black hair that she hardly ever puts up appears heavy, and while I’ve never been interested in wrapping anyone’s hair around my knuckles and using it for leverage during sex, suddenly, the images are there in my mind. The outright craving to try it just once to see if I’ll enjoy it after all.
There’s so much endless ink on her body, from her ankles to her throat, and holy, I’ve never been so intrigued by art before. The memory of what I know hides beneath the shortly cropped band tee she’s wearing lingers in my mind like a stubborn cold.
She’s so damn confident in herself and her body that it’s that much harder not to gawk at her and wonder what it would take to replicate the same feelings within yourself.
I consider asking her to strip me bare and teach me how to embrace those things, but if I did, I don’t trust that it wouldn’t lead to other things.
Not right now.
And that’s absolutely not very fake, is it?
“This house is insane,” I throw out in an attempt to cool myself down with a subject change.
“More like ridiculous.”
“No wonder your parents don’t live in town. There’s nothing like this there.”
Bryce jerks her chin and slows her steps, walking in pace with me. The change of speed helps me focus on what I should be paying attention to. Not her ass.
She calls the house ridiculous, but at least it’s beautiful. A little too similar to a castle for my taste, with the rounded entrance and sharp roof peaks, but still breathtaking. It’s grand and white and bright, appearing far more welcoming than it is. A smokescreen like the witch’s house from Hansel and Gretel .
I can’t imagine a woman like Bryce in this place. Not happily.
“It paints the perfect family picture my mother loves to project.”
“That it does. I mean, there’s a literal”—I squint past the giant stone with matte-black letters that spell out the Lemieux name—“gazebo over there.”
Bryce releases a harsh breath. “Yeah.”
She slows her steps the closer we get to the house. The driveway is round and dramatic, made of tiny little pebbles that have been squashed down to be completely flat, but the toe of her boot catches on one, sending her stumbling.
“Woah,” I say, shooting my hand out to grab her elbow before she can fall forward.
Her skin is hot beneath my grip, even as the colour leaches from her already pale cheeks. Concern slashes through me, and I take her hand in mine, stroking the back of her knuckles until she meets my waiting gaze.
“It’ll be fine, Frosty. I’ve got you,” I promise.
Palm slick with her nerves, she swallows harshly and squeezes me back. “I trust you.”
“Then, let’s go meet with the Devil.”