27. CHLOE
27
CHLOE
The curtains in my room are open for a reason.
Even when traveling for work, I keep them pulled to opposite sides. I accidentally let it slip to my mom once and she lectured me on how dangerous that could be. Following it up with what if my hotel opened up to an office building where people could see in. That never bugged me.
Sleeping with them closed did.
What if I didn’t wake up? What if I missed an alarm?
I used to be terrible about setting an alarm, accidentally swiping it to p.m. instead of a.m. Keeping the curtains open automatically lets in the sunlight—at least it does in my bedroom at home. It’s why I selected an apartment with east-facing windows and positioned my bed where rays can wake me every morning. I let nature become my trusted alarm.
I don’t exactly need an alarm or the sun anymore. My body does a good job of waking me up.
Twisting in the sheets, my skin tingles. The friction against my bare legs isn’t relieving the tension between them. A sunflower haze is painted across the hotel room, illuminating the other side of the king-sized bed—the cold, empty side.
Kicking at the sheets and bunching them at the foot of the bed, I rest on my side. Scottsdale has been warm the past three days, the sun trickling in through the large window cradles me in warmth.
I’ve woken this way every day since that kiss with Cal. With the sun, sleepless, restless, and needy .
We didn’t speak when we got home that night. I’m not sure either of us knew what to say.
I know I didn’t.
What are you supposed to say when one short kiss was the best kiss of your life?
Or when that kiss replayed like a broken record all night?
His lips. His hold on my chin. His weight beneath me. His warmth. His everything.
Kissing Callum was like jumping into an ice bath. Every inch of my skin, nerves, and thoughts were stimulated and seized into a kiss that shattered all other kisses.
Shattering me and putting me back together all within one brush of his lips.
Making me feel alive. And I haven’t felt that alive in years.
I was so wound up by the simple touch of him that sleep evaded me. No remedy worked till I slipped my fingers in my cotton sleep shorts to release the ache between my legs. Even then, I craved for it to be his hand—I wished for it every night since then.
We didn’t speak that morning. I hate that I snuck out the front door, avoiding him. I still didn’t know what to say. I don’t even know what to feel.
Sure, my feelings for Cal are surpassing friendly, but he’s going to leave and I can’t let myself fall for someone only for another goodbye. He has to go back to London; it’s inevitable. It won’t matter how I feel about him or how much I may want him. He’ll be gone.
Just like everyone else.
I bailed on Emerson and I’s weekly coffee. She called me three times, and I silenced each of them. Heading straight to the office before I left that afternoon for a work trip.
Throwing myself into the events worked as a distraction till I ended up back here, wishing that I wasn’t so alone. Wishing that it was Cal beside me.
For the first time in years, I hadn’t felt alone. Living with him, whether we hang out or not, he’s there. It’s nice. I wish I had better words to articulate it, but nice is the only one that makes it through the mess inside my head.
I don’t find the need to put on a mask around him. I’m allowed to be myself—messy, colorful, soft. And for the first time since Aaron, protected and cared for.
Seen.
With Callum, I feel seen.
It’s easy to forget that this is still all pretend. I know there isn’t an end date— when you move out? —and that our arrangement is to keep his mom off his back—her little check-ins are annoying—but there are moments when I wish it were real. Heartbeats that are real.
Checking the time, I realize I need to get moving. I promised my co-worker that we could hike Camelback at two before our flight.
There was also a text notification from Cal waiting for me. Opening it, I find a selfie of him and Tucker in his bed. That turncoat. I swear he likes Cal more than me nowadays. A message accompanies it.
CAL: See you soon, Mommy!
Is there such a thing as a mommy kink?
I respond, deleting my message a few times before saying screw it and sending it.
Can’t wait to see my boys
***
Your building should come with bell service
LIAM: I’ll mention it at the next community meeting
I’m being lazy and a girl who doesn’t want to have to be independent all the time. I know I can carry my own bags, but sometimes I don’t want to.
I tried calling Cal when I got off the train, knowing I could easily convince him to come downstairs to roll my suitcase onto the elevator and from the elevator to the front door. Maybe even up the stairs to my room—but he didn’t answer.
I purposely leave my bag out and in his way, hopeful about the stairs.
He’s not in the living room, which isn’t completely surprising. Cal spends a lot of time in his home office or bedroom.
“Okay, okay.” I fold over to pet Tucker after the sixth nudge of my leg. “I missed you too, good boy. Did you have fun with Callum? Yeah, I bet you did.”
Standing back up, I do a double take of the living room. It’s been rearranged.
Cal wouldn’t. . .
I scan the space again, and I notice a new piece of furniture in the corner.
Wait. . .
I take a few steps closer.
My eyes immediately become hazy, a layer of water coating them. I blink away the moisture before they can become tears—damn periods and making us emotional.
That’s my piano. Aaron’s piano.
But. . . but it can’t be. It was ruined .
Patting my face, then pinching my arm, I make sure I’m not dreaming. Not a dream, Chloe . I walk over to it, running a hand over the keys in disbelief.
How? Who?
Did Cal do this?
It looks brand new, wholly refurbished—better than when Aaron bought it from a new and used music store.
Whoever did this must have paid a fortune to fix it. I press a key.
“It works,” I whisper, joy creeping between syllables.
I blink, getting rid of more tears.
A syrupy warmth coats all of my senses. Cal did this. There’s no way it was anyone else.
Despite my lethargic legs, I hurry up the stairs, searching for him. Needing to confirm my assumptions and say thank you, I head to his room.
Tucker follows me up the stairs.
Cal’s bedroom door is open when I make it down the hall. The lights are off, but a glow emanates from the bottom of his bathroom door.
“ Chloe .”
My eyes widen. Creep toward the door some. There it is again, my name. And holy accent. Husky and warm and all the things that make women’s insides a butterfly house—not that I have butterflies—and oozing sex.
There is a moment of hesitation. My hand almost curled on the door handle. I really shouldn’t. . . but I am curious.
Then he says my name again.
Screw it.
Walking into the bathroom, there is electricity in the air. Tension coiling and uncoiling in me.
Cal doesn’t acknowledge me. He might not even realize I’m here, that I’m home.
“Nice thigh tats,” I taunt, but not really because it is nice .
Slowly he turns. Face stilling, walking to the glass panel closet to where I’m leaning against the counter.
“You’re home.”
I nod.
He wipes at the glass.
My eyes dropping down his body, not missing what he was obviously taking care of in here.
Am I blushing? I touch my cheeks. I totally am.
Then I lick my lips.
Lick my lips like an animal ready to pounce on my prey.
Wait, what?
Oh. My. God.
What is wrong with me?
He is. Callum Sullivan.
Cal wipes at the condensation collected on the glass. Big circles this time, giving me a clear, better, more hypnotizing view of him. His other hand moving—slow but moving.
“Chloe.” This time my name is a warning.
I blink a few times. “I heard my name, didn’t mean to interrupt. Feel free to continue.” I smile at him. Seriously, what is happening to me? “I wanted to thank you for the piano.”
“Wasn’t me.”
“Yeah, sure.” I turn to leave.
“You can stay.”
“Stay?”
“Watch.” He shrugs. Brow low. Drags his bottom lip into his mouth.
“Watch?”
Instead of stepping toward the door, I move to the glass. Closer. His eyes widen as if he believes I’m taking him up on the offer.
With only the glass separating us, I tilt my head. “Would hate to ruin the fantasy, Pretty Boy.” I run a finger across the glass that separates me from his chest. “Or.” Tilting my head the other way, I pull a mischievous face. “Do you need a new one? ”
“Chloe,” he whimpers as my other hand plays with the waistband of my sweatpants. “Please.”
I sniffle a dangerous laugh.
Continue for another second and he sighs, resting his forehead on the glass.
All I see is a green light telling me to go. But it quickly changes, my heart forcing a red light, forcing me to stop.
Wanting him will only end in heartache.
Me: when he leaves.
Cal: because of me.
It would be too easy to fall back into my pattern, back into this version of me I hate. The one that had me swearing off men— but you never swore off him , my brain ruthlessly reminds me.
Plus, he doesn’t deserve this. Giving into pleasure to feel something.
Withdrawing my hands, I turn on my heels and leave.
CALLUM
Her text said my boys.
My boys.
Two simple words had my head in a frenzy. Not that it wasn’t properly fucked already.
I haven’t stopped thinking about our kiss. For days, all of my focus reverted to the feel of her soft lips on mine, the way her mouth opened for more, and the sweetest sounds she released.
Letting nothing pass between us on the walk home. . . Idiot. I should have stopped her and kissed her again, I wanted to. Or when we got home.
I let her down. She didn’t say it but I just knew.
She clammed up at the same time I did. Both of us turned from each other in the hallway between our rooms .
I taped our photo strip on the fridge the following day, next to our weird lease-relationship agreement. A glaring reminder that this is fake and she’s my roommate—that little reminder is already ingrained in my mind from Chloe repeating it.
Roommates. If that’s her expectation for us then that’s all we will be, even if it’s starting to pain me only to be that. I won’t force her to change her mindset. I won’t fail at this.
But her text.
I was meeting with our Head of Finance and Audit Manager when she responded. I had to choke down my excitement of hearing from her for the first time in days.
I thought about our kiss and kissing her again. Kissing her in the kitchen or sprawled out on the dining room table. Kissing on the couch or in the shower.
Kissing her because she’s mine, my girl. And I’m hers, her boy.
I finished the day pent-up and needing a release.
At home, I took Tucker out, hoping that a walk and fresh air would clear my head. What a joke. Whenever I glanced down at her dog, my mind showed me her text.
Chloe was flying home from a work trip, and I knew if I didn’t take care of myself now, seeing her might make me come in my pants.
I dug my hand into the shower tile above my head, the other working my erection. I should earn a ribbon or a gold star for making it through the day.
Her name left my tongue. Rolling off it like it’s the only word it wants to say.
Watching her walk away, it rolls off again, a plea to not leave.
As she walks away, I can feel my heart ripping out of my chest.
Did I mess this up? Or does she not want me that way?
Never enough, once again.
I finish my shower, changing quickly before knocking on her door .
“Chloe.” My hand hits flat on the door harder than I intend. “I’m—” I’m what? Sorry she walked in on that? Sorry that she’s the one who has me slipping on all my rules for myself? “I’m sorry.”
I stand there, forehead resting on her door, when I finally try the handle.
Her room is empty.
She’s downstairs. Sitting on the piano bench, feet on the seat, legs bent into herself. Staring at the white and black keys.
I sit down in the spot next to her. Run my hand through my hair still wet from the shower.
“Hey, Dais.”
“Hi, Pretty Boy,” Chloe says quietly, gaze shifting to me. Quickly, she gives me a once-over, eyes lingering on my thigh tattoos, only the quote from my favorite book showing from my gray lounge shorts. I flex the muscle, toss her a wink, hoping she doesn’t catch me thriving under her gaze. I like being in her gaze almost as much as her orbit.
“I lied. I did get the piano fixed.”
“You fixed it?”
“You loved it.”
Chloe turns back to face the piano. Legs slip from the bench. “I wish I knew how to play.”
“I’ll teach you.” She laughs. “I mean it, Dais.”
“Right now?” Chloe asks tenderly, her body language soft.
“Sure.” Praying I remember everything, I reach my hands out, showing her a few cords. Let her test them, get a feel of them. She’s learning quickly.
We both scoot closer together. Hips bumping.
I reach an arm under hers, playing in between her hands. Show her the keys to a simple song. Sometimes, my hands on top of hers, completely swallowing them, and we’d play together.
The day fades away, but Chloe comes more alive.
A dull sparkle in her movements, her voice, her eyes. A rekindling of something deep within her .
We stop speaking. The only sound coming from the piano. She leans her head on my shoulder as I play.
I think we might have already been tethered together, these broken pieces within us finding somewhere soft to land, but I can sense it right now. Feel the bond twisting further together. I’m hit with the realization that when the lights go out, when the world ends, I want Chloe to be standing there with me.