Chapter 16
In spite of our exchange, after a couple hours of making eyes across the clubhouse, Pistol didn’t follow me home Thursday night. At least, not right away. I was more than half sleep when I felt him crawl into bed, and he was gone Friday morning before I woke up.
I swear, the man ran on no more than five hours of rest each night.
On the plus side, there was a bacon, egg, and cheese croissant waiting for me when I went to make my last remaining cup of coffee.
As much as I wanted the opportunity to have an uninterrupted conversation with him—maybe even over breakfast—it worked out for us to miss each other. With my closing shift at the diner leaving me a free morning, I decided it was finally time for me to hit the grocery store.
Entering the weekend with no coffee was just setting myself up for disappointment.
With still no idea what kinds of things Pistol liked to eat, outside of grilled cheese, I shopped like I normally did. The way things were going, I wasn’t sure how often we’d share a meal, anyway.
I took my time wandering through the store, appreciative of the mundane nature of the errand. I almost forgot what mundane felt like.
When I got home, I found another delivery waiting for me at the front door.
There were four boxes, each filled with the storage containers I bought for the pantry and the fridge.
With so much going on, I wasn’t really keeping track of my purchases and their expected delivery dates—but this one was a very pleasant surprise.
I was so excited at the prospect of replacing mismatched boxes and opened bags of dry goods with clear containers, making the pantry a destination, I forgot to feel guilty about the money I spent on them.
I occupied the next couple of hours washing the containers before I filled them and organized the pantry.
It was almost unreasonably satisfying to see it all come together.
When I was finished, I snapped a picture and sent it to Charity with a text.
Am I a domestic goddess?
To which she immediately replied.
Livin the dream…
I had just enough time to rid the kitchen of boxes before I had to get ready for work. My shift was busy but normal, like a typical Friday evening, and it was nearly eleven when I returned to my car at the end of the night.
I arrived home to find Pistol’s truck parked in the driveway. Strange as it was for my heart rate to accelerate in excitement at the sight of a man’s truck—a man who was both my husband and barely more than a stranger—I hurried inside, all the while thinking one thing.
Charity was right.
This was the dream.
Or, at least, the real possibility of it.
I was coming home to a Stallion.
My Stallion.
Or, at least, I thought I was.
I took two steps into a dark house and knew immediately he wasn’t there. Neither was Reaper. As I locked myself inside, I pulled out my phone, curious if he’d sent me a message.
While I wasn’t surprised, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed to find nothing.
A part of me wanted to be irate. He moved me into his house so he could keep tabs on me, but he was never there. I thought briefly about turning around, getting back in my car, and driving over to the clubhouse to remind him of the woman he had at home.
The idea fizzled almost as quickly as it came. I didn’t want to come across as thirsty.
But I wasn’t giving up, either.
I decided to make it an early night.
I wasn’t typically an up at dawn kind of gal, but it seemed like my next best play.
Fifteen minutes later—face washed, teeth brushed, and covered in the smallest sleep shorts I could find—I crawled into bed and willed myself to sleep.
“Lyla!”
I woke with a start, not entirely sure if I was dreaming.
Taking in the details of the room, I realized the sun was already shining through the windows.
Shit, I thought as I folded myself over the side of the bed, reaching for my phone. It was on the floor, its charger plugged into a nearby outlet. I didn’t spare a thought to how badly I wanted a nightstand, too distracted by the display on my screen.
Eight twelve.
I slept in.
I didn’t mean to sleep in.
I could have sworn I set an alarm.
Did I set it for PM rather than AM?
Before I got the chance to check, my wakeup call sounded again.
“Lyla!”
I sat up quickly, frowning toward the bedroom door, which stood cracked open.
Pistol was home. This was supposed to be a good thing.
But he sounded angry.
“Lyla!”
That last one made me jump. I didn’t want to know what my name sounded like the fourth time he called it, so I threw the sheets back and quickly got out of bed. I didn’t even bother running my fingers through my hair as I hurried out into the main room in my bare feet.
“What? What is going on?”
I barely got the words out when I stopped short at the mouth of the hallway.
Pistol was standing by the front door, a sheet of paper in one hand, a sweat towel in his other, and a scowl tugging at his brow.
He was in a pair of gym shorts and tennis shoes, his naked chest glistening with a thin layer of sweat.
Did he go out on a run? Is that where he goes in the mornings?
In very different circumstances, his entire look might have turned me on.
Fuck, but he was sexy—even with two fading black eyes.
Except, given the way he was yelling for me, I understood he was pissed.
He was pissed at me.
Although, after my full body scan, I noticed I wasn’t the only one interested in a peek.
The fire I saw in his gaze when those dark green eyes met mine was ambiguous, to say the least. It dawned on me then how I’d gone to bed in my barely-there, cheeky sleep shorts—the ones with cherries printed on them—and a thin white tank.
It was true I wore the combo on purpose, hoping to tempt my husband, but the vibes I was getting from him at present were confusing.
Before I could figure out which way he was leaning, two men walked through the open door. One of them was pulling on gloves. The other was pushing a dolly. Both of them were headed straight for the couch.
“Oh,” I breathed.
“Yeah. Oh,” muttered Pistol. “You want to tell me why I’m holdin’ a piece of paper that says I spent five thousand dollars on a new couch when I’ve got a perfectly good one sittin’ right there?”
He tilted his head toward the leather sofa, and I refrained from mentioning it wasn’t actually sitting there anymore—the movers already busy lifting it on its side in order to wheel it out of the house.
Furniture removal was an add-on service.
Technically, the new couch was only forty-six-hundred.
“Lyla!”
“Okay, would you stop calling my name like that?” I begged, needing a second to collect my thoughts.
I knew this day was coming. I couldn’t hide my purchases from him forever. But I wasn’t prepared for this. My body was still adjusting to the morning, not to mention the sight of Pistol shirtless after some sort of early physical excursion, and I suddenly had to pee.
He shook the paper at me and demanded, “Explain.”
For reasons I couldn’t quite articulate, the first thing I could think to say was, “Wait until you see it. You’ll understand when you see it.”
He raised both eyebrows at me, and I knew I was going to have to do better. Fortunately for me, the movers distracted him as they shuffled toward the door. Pistol was forced to step out of their path so they had room to navigate through the narrow opening.
Deciding this was my opportunity to stall, I murmured, “Be right back,” before hurrying to the bathroom.
Once inside, I didn’t rush.
After I emptied my bladder and washed my hands, I reached for my toothbrush and tried to think. The couch was only the beginning. Given the way he was responding to the delivery, I was sure he hadn’t looked at his credit card statement. Not that I blamed him. He was dealing with a lot.
A twinge of guilt started to slither up my spine, but I shook it off before I spat out a mouthful of toothpaste.
He wasn’t the only one dealing with a lot.
He moved me into his house and expected me to settle.
But after nearly a week, we hadn’t so much as had a conversation about how we were going to split the cost of groceries.
“Lyla, if you’re not out of there in thirty seconds, I will bust this door down,” he called from the hallway.
I glanced toward the door, not doubting him for a second, then continued rinsing out my mouth. When I was finished, I raked my fingers through my bedhead hair with a sigh.
Pistol pounded a fist against the door, making me gasp.
It hadn’t been thirty seconds, but it felt pretty obvious my time was up.
I opened the barrier between us just as one of the delivery guys announced, “All set here. You folks have a good day.”
Pistol turned toward the living room, trailing after them to shut the door. I followed close behind, wanting to get a look at the new couch.
It was brown suede, like dark chocolate, and it looked more delicious than it did in a photo.
It was a quasi-sectional, with a bench cushion that could sit two or three and a chase lounge on the opposite end.
It fit in the room perfectly. All that was missing were a few throw pillows, a cozy blanket, and the perfect rug with a couple end tables—all of which would show up at some point in the coming days.
“You used my credit card,” said Pistol, yanking me from my thoughts.
I shifted to face him, inevitably distracted by his half naked body. I felt it as my nipples began to pebble. Remembering the tank I wore was practically see through, I folded my arms across my chest and tried to focus.
Since he wasn’t wrong, I merely replied, “Yup.”
“I told you to unpack. You want to make yourself at home, fine. You want to turn my kitchen into a spread from Better Homes and Gardens, whatever—but this? Five grand spent without my knowin’? Not cool.”
My guilt came back, coupled with remorse, and I dropped my arms to my sides as I took a step toward him.
“You’re right. I should have told you.”
“Told me?” he spat with a scowl. “Babe—shouldn’t have fuckin’ done it.”