Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
CORA
“You’re back,” I say, unimpressed as I glare at him from the opposite side of the threshold. “And you know what a door is and how to knock,” I add.
The man behind him laughs as he leans against the wall.
“You called the police on me,” he accuses.
“You broke into my apartment,” I throw back at him.
“Some would call it an act of love.” He smirks, and his friend coughs. Love? Is he crazy? Surely he is right now.
“Some would say it’s crazy behavior.” I raise a brow, waiting for him to argue back. “And that would be insane coming from someone who is trained to help the crazy in people.” How this man is the highest-paid therapist is beyond me. “Why are you here?” I ask. “Trying to break back in?”
“I used the door this time since I know how angry it makes you when I don’t.” His friend laughs again. “I need the rest of my things,” he says, and it’s then that I notice he’s only wearing his pants.
“I burned them. They were covered in blood,” I tell him, then grab his phone from the console table. “What’s your PIN code?”
He smirks and, without hesitation, says, “Sixty-nine, sixty-nine.” Then he winks.
At first, I think he’s joking. I go straight to his photos to see pictures of houses, businesses, and his office space, and then one single picture of me asleep in my bed.
“You won’t find any other women in there,” he says, which makes me look up at him and squeeze my eyebrows together.
“Why not?” I ask as my heart starts beating fast.
“Because none have been worth my time to take a photo. Now since you did me the great honor of burning the rest of my clothes…” He takes a deep breath. “That shirt alone was four hundred dollars, by the way. Can I have my phone back? That is, of course, if you’re finished going through it.”
After locking it, I hand it to him and try to keep my composure. Maybe he forgot he took that of me.
“I figured since you invaded my privacy, I’d return the favor.”
“Should I call the police?” he asks, and his friend coughs again.
“This is Detective Boston.” He waves a hand behind him. “Did you happen to save my keys?” he asks, not bothering further with the detective.
“I did.” I grab his keys and toss them to him. He unclips a single key and then hands it to me.
“What’s that for?”
“So you can break into my house anytime you please.”
“And why would I want to do that?”
“So I can fuck you.” He smiles, the kind of smile that’s slow, lingering like he already owns me. Then, without another word, he walks away with a swagger that says he knows I am watching him.
Yeah, that’s never going to happen.
“Have a good day, Cora. Break into my house anytime. I just sent you the address,” he calls over his shoulder. My phone dings before he and his detective friend climb into the car and drive off.
When I check my phone, there is a text from Arlo with his address.
I know that address because I’ve sold several properties on that street.
While part of me is curious about how he lives, I know I should stay away from him because my feelings are growing, and while I don’t understand them, I know he isn’t the right choice.
That man is the one women run away from if they have any brains.
* * *
“So, I met someone,” I tell my mother during my next visit with her. Work has been busier than ever the past week, which is good for business. And it helps me afford whatever care my mother needs.
“I’m not sure if I really like him yet though.” I offer her a piece of white chocolate, and she takes it. “But he gave me a key to his place, and it’s been burning a hole in my purse all week, taunting me to use it. I’m not sure I should, Mom. You see, he’s a little crazy.”
Just as I say those words, a nurse walks in with a bouquet of beautiful flowers.
They’re pastel shades—soft pinks, buttery yellows, delicate lilacs—each one different.
The scent hits me, light and sweet, cutting through the sterile air.
He puts them on her dresser, and that’s when I notice another vase of flowers already there.
“When were those delivered?” I ask him, pointing to the older ones. I didn’t send her flowers.
“Oh, last week. Stunning, aren’t they?” He picks up the vase and takes it to the sink to change the water.
“Who are they from?” I question, getting up to look at the fresh ones.
“Doesn’t say, just that they’re for your mother.” He leaves after setting the older bouquet back where it was. I look for a card but can’t find one.
My mother asks a question, but I don’t hear it. When I turn around, I see her trying to reach for the chocolate. After breaking off a piece, I hand it to her. She asks who I am, and I stay a little longer before leaving with a heavy heart.
“How is she today, miss?” Matty, my driver, asks.
“The same,” I say, climbing into the back seat. I call Arlo once we’re on the road, and he answers right away.
“Cora.” The way he says my name has me looking out the window. I say nothing as I sit there with the phone pressed to my ear. “What’s wrong?” are his next words. How he knows something is wrong has me even more on edge. “Come to my place. We can talk.”
“You don’t want to talk with me, Arlo.”
“You’re right. There are many other things I can think of that I would rather be doing with you than talking. But, if that’s why you called, you have my address, and I can help you forget.”
I hang up at that pronouncement, and, true to his word, a few seconds later, he sends me his address.
Again. I already have the key, and I already knew where he lived.
Maybe he forgot that. When I tell Matty where to go, he nods and changes direction.
My leg bounces on the drive there, worry settling into my core.
Is this a stupid thing to do?
Do all women feel this way about a man they know they can’t get more out of than a booty call?
When the car pulls up to his house, the front door opens to reveal Arlo. He casually leans against the jamb, waiting. He is wearing a white shirt that hugs his upper body and loose gray track pants.
“Miss, do you want me to stay or leave?”
I shake my head at Matty’s question.
“I don’t know,” I say just as my phone beeps. I glance back at Arlo to see him with his phone in hand.
Arlo: Do you intend to get out?
I flick my gaze from him to my phone before I type.
Me: I’m considering my options.
And it’s true; I am.
A part of me wants to stop feeling right now. The pain of knowing what’s happening with my mother—he can make those feelings disappear, at least for a short amount of time. Because when I’m with him, he consumes me.
Arlo: Get out of the car, sweetheart.
I read his message again, and I know I’m frowning. He knows I hate being called that. But he does it to tease me. He loves to tease.
Me: No. I’m leaving.
I send it and then watch as he reads it. A small smile plays on his lips before he slides his phone into his pocket and proceeds to walk out to the car. He comes to the back door, pulls it open, and then he locks his dark eyes on me, looking way too fucking good.
“Hello, sweetheart. Miss me?” He waggles his brows.
I clench my jaw as I stare at him. “Miss you?” I scoff. “No, I didn’t. Now, shut my door so I can leave.”
He grins and then climbs in and shuts the door behind himself. Turning to face me, he asks, “Where are we going?”
“You do realize you’re supposed to be the sane one, right? It’s basically your job.”
Matty gapes at us through the rearview mirror but doesn’t say a word.
“With you, my sanity goes out the window. Now, can we please get out of the car so we don’t fuck in front of your driver? Unless that’s what you’re into.” He winks, and Matty coughs from the front seat.
I give Matty an apologetic smile as I say, “I’m sorry, Matty. I’ll message you when I’m ready.”
Arlo’s expression is triumphant as he opens the door and slides out, then waits, offering me his hand.
“She won’t need you. I’ll get her home,” Arlo tells Matty, still holding his hand out for me.
Do I take it?
Do I get out of this car?
Is this another line I shouldn’t be crossing?
Every time I cross a line with him, I spiral, thinking I’ve done something bad. But each and every time he’s touched me, I lose myself in him.
So I take his fucking hand, which only makes his lips lift higher as I slide out of the car, and my heels hit the pavement.
“It’s only sex,” I tell him.
He doesn’t let go of my hand as he pulls me to the open front door. When we’re inside, I go to take my heels off, but he says, “You can keep them on.” I ignore him and slip them off because his floors are pristine, and I don’t want to be the one to dirty them.
He shuts the door behind me, and I glance around as I follow him further inside.
The walls are made of exposed brick, and a large metal-framed window offers a magnificent view.
The space is flooded with natural light, which contrasts well with the dark tones.
He has an oversized sofa with plenty of pillows, making it appear to be very comfy.
The books, candles, and house plants give it a much homier feel than my sterile apartment. The room is both modern and cozy.
“You don’t bring anyone here, do you?” I ask as he drops my hand and heads into the kitchen.
It has dark wooden countertops and open shelves filled with glass jars and bottles.
He grabs two glasses, placing them on the counter before he goes to the wine fridge to select a bottle, opening it as he looks at me.
“I do not. This is my personal space,” he says as he pours the wine. “Did you visit your mother today?” I narrow my eyes at him. “You visit her more on the weekends.”
“Are you tracking me?” I question.
“No, just observant. Plus, I can see the visitor list at your mother’s facility.” He winks.
“Oh, yes, when you looked into me.” I roll my eyes and step up to the counter.
“I take it that was done by your detective friend, the one who saved you from spending the night naked in a cell.” He pushes a glass my way, but I don’t take it.
“I didn’t come here to drink. I came here to fuck. ” I smile at him.
“And who am I to get in your way?”