Call You Mine (Hey Honey’s Baristas #2)

Chapter 1

AVA

Where the fuck is my underwear?

Squinting my eyes, I try to make out the pieces of clothing lying around the dark carpeted floor.

The full moon shining in from the open curtains isn’t enough light to see more than blobs of color haphazardly discarded.

The cold winter air coming in through the cracked window raises goosebumps over the exposed skin of my legs, my oversized hoodie covering only just above my mid-thigh.

I bend down, reaching for what I hope is the red fabric of my underwear, lying just under the desk in the corner of the room, only to find it’s someone else’s red underwear.

What man wears boxer briefs that aren’t black, navy, or gray?

Going down on my knees, I quietly make my way around the bed, crawling on the floor in search of my thong, feeling absolutely ridiculous.

Coming here was a mistake. A moment of weakness.

Or, more accurately, another moment of weakness.

I’ve lost count of how many times over these last eight months that I’ve sent the embarrassing “You up?” text, and you would think the excitement and urgency would have dwindled away.

Instead, I basically throw my clothes off before taking the three steps from the door to his bed every time I’m here—shutting my mind off and sinking into the feeling of just letting go.

Until it’s over, and everything I’ve tried to clear of my mind comes rushing back.

I should go, leave my underwear behind, and get out of here before he wakes up—I’ve done it before.

More times than I’d care to admit.

But before I can make the decision, a deep rasp breaks through the silence, and I freeze mid-crawl. “Going somewhere?”

Slowly looking up, the moonlight cascades perfectly over those caramel eyes, that angular jaw, that messy brown hair that’s always falling over his forehead, even more messy from my fingers running through it just an hour ago.

Anderson Montgomery.

My one-night stand—turned I’ve lost count of how many nights.

It takes me a second to respond to him. The smirk on his face as he holds his head up with his forearm has me wishing I’d never left his bed in the first place.

A ridiculous thought.

I got mine. He got his.

Now it’s time for me to go.

“I have to be—”

“Up early for work,” Anderson finishes for me, rolling onto his back until I can no longer see him.

“You’re catching on quickly.” I keep my voice light, lifting the blanket falling over the edge of the bed. Leaning down to check underneath, a sliver of unwelcome guilt forms in my stomach at my little white lie.

The one I tell him every time I leave in the middle of the night.

It’s not entirely a lie; I do have to be up early to open the coffee shop tomorrow, and the people-pleasing tendencies I’ve had for as long as I can remember are hard habits to break.

But the truth is, I don’t sleep in other people’s beds.

And I shouldn’t feel guilty for setting this boundary. Sleeping in my own room and under my own sheets, along with my routines I stick to before I go to bed and when I wake up, are ways I’ve learned to make me feel like I have some semblance of control in life.

Control that I need to stay sane.

Control that I need to survive.

“Looking for these?” Anderson’s voice carries from above, I resist the urge to let out a groan as I pull the top half of my body out from underneath his bed.

Sitting up on my knees, I find him lying on his side now, facing me. His carved, strong body is completely exposed, aside from where part of the bed sheets cover his waist.

My eyes beg to trace every ridge, every muscle—every inch of his body—but I don’t let myself look past his raised brow and the underwear he holds up for me to see.

“I didn’t take you for a panty thief,” I quip, snatching the fabric from his hands. “It’s not a good look.”

“No need to be a thief when you leave them for me to find as your parting gift,” he teases.

“Just something to remember me by,” I say in the sweetest voice I can muster, as I slip the underwear up my legs and turn to find my leggings thrown over his desk chair—much easier to find.

“Surprised you stuck around this long. What time is it? Two in the morning? That’s got to be a record,” Anderson jokes, but there’s a slight edge to his voice, like he’s trying to hide the hurt in it.

“So is the volume of your snoring. You reach decibels that belong in The Guinness Book of World Records,” I fire back, pulling my curls into a bun on the top of my head. “I can give them a call for you if you’d like.”

Anderson’s chuckle is deep and warm, and I feel it wrap around my entire body. It takes a lot of willpower to act unaffected.

Turning to face him, I can see him watching me closely.

I would’ve been able to see it even if my eyes hadn’t adjusted to the darkness—his smile is bright enough to see from a mile away. Wide enough that the skin around his eyes crinkles from years of sharing it with the world, an ease to it that makes you feel deserving because it’s so genuine.

Letting out an exhale, I tear my gaze away, only for it to catch on the mess of his bedroom.

Most of Anderson's clothes are on the floor, including the ones I threw there after ripping them off his body when I got here. The blankets and sheets are askew, condom wrappers discarded on the floor.

The overall mess of the bedroom makes the tips of my fingers prickle.

I begin opening and closing my fists, counting every time I feel my nails against my palm as I look around the space, the discomfort thick on my skin.

I keep counting, needing to get to seventeen before I can stop and focus on something else.

“Are you sure you have to go?” Anderson asks, his eyes still on me, his voice heavy with concern, though he tries to keep it light. “My place is closer to Hey Honey’s anyway.”

As I finish the last squeeze of my hands, I feel my mask coming over my face.

One that always reassures everyone around me that nothing is wrong.

That nothing is ever wrong. There’s no impossible war happening inside me right now.

There is no fight to keep control of my compulsions, no intense need to find order.

I cross my arms over my chest, tucking my hands under them to keep from starting the counting again, like an itch I need to scratch. “Most men wouldn’t care about this arrangement.” My voice comes out even, despite my inner turmoil.

Anderson doesn’t say anything at first, but I practically feel his gaze travel down my body as he eyes me up and down.

He cocks his head to the side when his eyes meet mine again. “How many times do I have to tell you, love? I’m not ‘most men’.”

I keep my face neutral with a hint of indifference, pretending it isn’t as hard to do as it is. The term of endearment is nothing new, nor something that should fluster me.

But it does.

Every damn time.

Even if it’s for a second, Anderson Montgomery always finds a way to get me out of my head.

“I’ll–” I start, pausing to let out an exhale, “see you around.”

There’s a flash of disappointment on his face that I pretend I don’t see.

I knew the night we met eight months ago—on a double date with my best friend and his friend from the fire station—that Anderson was looking for something serious.

He said as much as we whispered in the trunk of his car, the summer night air keeping us warm at the drive-in theater.

I’m looking to settle down, Ava.

He told me just before he gently slid his hand up my neck to hold the side of my face, his eyes boring into mine as if trying to see inside my soul.

I should’ve pulled away—put him out of his misery and told him I was looking for the opposite. That I would never bring a partner into my mess of a life.

A mess I am constantly trying to clean up.

But the way he looked at me, as if I were the only person in the world.

As if I could mean something to him without ever having to try.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his.

So I let him kiss me.

I let him think that the two of us stood a chance.

“Ava,” Anderson gently says. It almost sounds like a plea—a whisper of what I know he wants to say, but I ignore it.

I grab my purse from where I set it down just inside the bedroom door, leaving before I let him—let myself—believe this could be anything more.

It would be so easy to strip off my clothes and fall back into his bed.

I could let him wrap his arms around me and fall asleep to the smell of his skin and the beating of his heart.

But instead, I leave, rushing to his front door, and count my breaths.

In. Out.

One.

In. Out.

Two.

They’re quick and shallow, barely a full breath, but with a number as high as seventeen, I don’t want to be wasting my whole life away, counting things that only matter because my brain tells me they do.

The dread in my chest fades as I get closer and closer to seventeen, pulling on my snow boots and hiking the hood of my sweatshirt over my head.

I barely register the frigid wind of the cold, February night as I shut the door behind me, finally counting my last deep breath and watching it dissipate in the air.

I press my back against the door when my brain presents me with a new and unwelcome intrusive thought. If you don’t check that the door is locked, someone you care about will get hurt.

Like my best friend, whose abusive ex walked right through our front door, knocking her out in front of her one-year-old daughter.

Which led to the house we lived in together burning down in flames.

And then, I almost lost her.

The memories spur me into action, reaching behind myself to press the lock symbol on the keypad and hear the automatic deadbolt engage.

But it’s not enough.

I turn back around, needing to see that the door won’t open as I turn the knob.

It’s still not enough.

I turn it a second time.

Still locked.

I turn it fifteen more times, hoping the fear will abate since I’ve completed the ritual. But it doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t.

I give in to the compulsion again, but it takes me three full rounds and having to count out loud for the last one, before the anxiety finally subsides enough and I feel some relief.

Exhaling, I open my eyes to the neatly lined houses reflecting the soft glow of the streetlights. My mind is quiet for a few beats as the heaviness in my chest lightens.

Then, without warning, my mind fixates on something else. Again.

It’s irrational and illogical.

But I can’t help it.

My therapist would remind me of the fifteen-minute rule—an Exposure and Response Prevention technique she’s had me doing since the fire eight months ago, when it became a full-time job to keep my Obsessive Compulsive Disorder under control.

I’m supposed to delay performing the compulsion to teach my brain that the obsessive thoughts will go away on their own. It’s supposed to help build my confidence and show me that I have control over my responses, not my OCD.

But this urge is too overpowering.

It always is.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

I stop, inhaling a shaky breath. My whole body is rigid, but not from the cold.

I’m fighting with myself, knowing that the counting is just a manifestation of my mental illness, but needing to do it anyway.

I’m about to take another step when my phone rings from my purse, and my stomach drops.

A phone call in the middle of the night is never good.