Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
I wake up face down under the covers in a big, warm bed. The sunrise from the windows, with its colors dancing across the horizon, marks the start of a new day. Despite the signs of a beautiful morning, my head is pounding, stealing the peaceful moment. I’m not hungover, not completely, but the dull ache is enough for me to massage my temples as I survey my surroundings. Isabella’s sleeping on the couch, covered with a blanket, with her arm hanging out.
This is not Isabella’s room. We’re still in Victor’s room. And I’m in his bed. Between his sheets. Fuck. I don’t even know when or how that happened. I made myself comfortable on his bed last night, but not in his bed.
Where is Victor? Did he come home last night and find me in his bed? Shit. Shit. Shit. Could I be any more mortified? Even though I’m still wearing yesterday’s clothes, the optics are not in my favor.
Easing out of bed, I stand on unsteady legs. I yawn, rubbing my eyes and remembering that I still have my contacts in. Muttering curses, I clumsily make my way to Victor’s bathroom. It takes me nearly five minutes to remove my disposable contacts. The right one comes out quickly enough, but the left one won’t stick to my fingertip for dear life. By the time I manage to remove it, my eye is red and irritated.
Leaving Isabella to sleep, I pad down the stairs, scanning the lower level. I breathe a sigh of relief finding it empty. No one besides Isabella has to know that I slept in Victor’s bed last night. I’m taking that one to my grave.
As soon as I step inside Isabella’s room, I reach into my bag and retrieve my eyeglasses, eager to put them on. Once I can see clearly, I rummage through the rest of my things. I brought a towel from home, not knowing how stocked Victor’s place was. That was before I knew his mother outfitted his apartment with all the linens and kitchenware he could ever need. With my bag in tow, I shut myself into the guest bathroom for an hour.
I could still use some Tylenol for my headache. I’m tempted to find some when I finally leave the bathroom, but I’ve been intrusive enough, making myself way too comfortable already. Esme would kill me if she knew I slept in Victor’s bed last night. Heck, I’d do the same to her if it were Ian. But she would never do that to you. And now I feel even shittier.
She texted me last night after I’d gone to sleep, asking all sorts of questions about Victor’s whereabouts and if he came home last night as if I had the inside information. There was also a missed text from Liv asking me if I knew the piping hot tea. I haven’t responded to either of them yet. On my way to Isabella’s room, I do just that.
Me
As far as I know, Victor went out with his boys last night. I just woke up, so I’m not sure if he’s home yet. I’ll let you know.
I don’t wait for a response from Esme. Not at this early hour. I open up Liv’s text message and tap reply.
Me
What’s the tea?
My money is on it having to do with Victor and Esme.
Without any pockets on the particular dress I’m wearing, I carry my phone on my way to check on Isabella, who meets me on the stairwell, wrapped in a blanket. “Morning,” she says, her voice scratchy and her eyes smeared with yesterday’s mascara.
“Feeling okay? Can I get you anything?”
“No, I’m good. Need more sleep,” she groans on her way to her room, closing the door behind her.
Unlike her brother, Isabella James is not a morning person. Speaking of Victor . Someone’s making coffee. Its aroma hits me like a cool breeze on a hot summer day. And unless he had company last night, that someone is him. My legs want to follow the rich, bold flavors, while my mind tells me to go the other way. In the end, the power of coffee wins over.
It’s like déjà vu, except that he has a shirt on this time as he prepares his Keurig. A thin white undershirt that molds to him like skin. “Morning, Skylar.”
How do you keep doing that ? How can he tell it’s me if he’s facing the other way?
“Morning.” I approach the island. “Have you been home for a while?”
He’s wearing a different pair of pants than the ones he had on last night, which means he’s been in his bedroom. But when was he up there? When I was still in his bed, or while I was in the guest bath taking a shower? I’m too embarrassed to ask straight out.
“Just a few hours.” He reaches for another cup from his cabinet.
“I can explain,” I say as I shoot Esme a quick text.
Me
He got home a few hours ago.
“Explain what?”
I look up from my phone. “For accidentally falling asleep in your bed. Seems like I had too much to drink?—”
“And smoke.” The warmth in his voice carries a smile, so he’s not mad. If he were mad, would he be fixing me a cup of coffee like he’s doing now?
“I only had a few hits. But we sort of finished your Hennessy.”
He nods. “The entire bottle?” Turn around, damn it . Seeing his face will give me a better sense of how he’s reacting.
“Not the whole bottle. We dropped it, and it spilled. But we cleaned it up.”
He finally turns around with two cups of coffee in his hand.
Whew. I thought I was ready, but I so was not. His handsome face catches me off guard—the light stubble on his angular jaw looking lickable—and I nearly swallow my tongue, but I gather myself enough to say, “And I promise to buy you a new bottle.”
“You don’t have to do that.” He sets my cup in front of me, giving me a whiff of his clean scent. He’s showered. But when? Where?
“I do.” I sip my coffee, almost closing my eyes at the bold flavors with just the right amount of sugar.
“Hungover?”
I’m about to shake my head but nod instead. “A little.”
The corners of his mouth quirk upward. “I didn’t take you as a party girl.”
“I’m not. I don’t even drink much…often.” I nudge my glasses up my nose.
“Are you hungry?”
“I mean…I could eat.”
He flashes me a brilliant smile that shows off his straight white teeth. “Me too.” He sets his coffee down and gets to work, pulling bacon, eggs, and vegetables from his fridge.
“I can’t cook. Not very well, at least.” I hop down from my stool with our cups of coffee and walk around the island to stand in front of all the ingredients he’s assembled while he grabs a couple of mixing bowls and a cutting board from his cabinets.
“You like omelets?” He joins me at the counter with a knife and expertly begins chopping the vegetables.
“Yes.”
“Good. I’ll make us some.” He winks the sexiest wink of all winks. Dear God.
“You cook?”
A chuckle escapes him, rich and warm. “Yes, I cook. My mom taught us.”
Apologetic yet genuinely impressed, I reply, “Sorry. I don’t mean to sound so shocked. Esme’s a lucky girl.”
He gives a noncommittal hum, his attention absorbed by the rhythmic dance of the knife against the chopping board.
“We shouldn’t have been in your room last night, and I definitely shouldn’t have been in your bed. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay, Skylar.”
Guilt gnaws at me, persistent and sharp. “No, it’s not. Esme would kill me if she knew.”
“Then she’d kill us both because I tucked you in.”
Say what now ? “You did?”
“I tried to wake you, but you were out like a light. And you seemed cold, so I put you under the covers.”
The practicality and simplicity of his words take away some of the intimacy, easing my guilt a little. “You put me under the covers? How?”
He avoids my gaze, his eyes shifting to the safety of his task. Vegetables tumble into the bowl, a diversion from the conversation. “I had to lift you from the bed and hold you in my arms to pull the covers back.”
My eyes snap wide open, grappling with the hazy non-memory. “I—didn’t know that.”
“Like I said, you were out like a light.”
“Yeah.” I scratch at the tangled bird’s nest of a bun on top of my head. What did it feel like to be held in his arms ? I dismiss the thought, grateful that I don’t remember.
“Summer or winter?” I ask, taking the last bite of my delicious omelet.
Victor slides me a water bottle across the island before taking his seat across from me again. “Depends.”
Accusingly, but with a playful smirk, I counter, “You’re cheating.”
His eyebrows lift in feigned innocence, the corners of his mouth fighting back a smile. “How am I cheating?”
Leaning in, I rest my elbows on the cool counter, fingers laced together under my chin, mirroring his playful challenge. “You’re supposed to answer the question with the first answer that pops into your head.”
“But I can’t answer that question without knowing the location. Summer in Texas? Fuck no. Summer in California, fuck yeah.”
“So you like California?” Would he move there with Esme if she asked?
He leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. “Now who’s breaking the rules? It’s my turn for a question, remember?”
I hold my hands up in surrender. “You’re right.” I twist off the lid of my water bottle and take a sip, playfully narrowing my eyes at him.
“Tattoos or piercings?”
Locking eyes with him, the word “Tattoos” slips out. A rush of warmth floods my cheeks, a telltale heat creeping up my face. “Logic or emotion?” I manage, even as I’m sure my blush is giving me away.
He hesitates, weighing his words, the steam from his second cup of coffee curling up between us. “Logic,” he finally offers, his voice a mix of contemplation and certainty as he takes a slow sip, his eyes never leaving mine. “Money or love?”
“Love.” The intensity in his gaze is too much; I have to break the connection. I avert my gaze, feeling the warmth at the back of my neck as I clear my throat, a small gesture to steer us back to safer ground. “Predictability or excitement?”
He straightens in his chair while I tuck my strayaways behind my ears. “Excitement.”
A comfortable smile finds its way to my lips. “That’s a no-brainer.”
“Painful truth or comforting lie?” he asks next.
“Neither.” It’s an evasion, and we both know it.
He cocks his head to the side, a silent challenge. “Neither,” he echoes.
Firmly, I shake my head. “Nope.”
There’s a flicker of something—disappointment?—in his eyes as he observes me. “I’ve always taken you for someone who likes following the rules.”
“I do.” The defensive edge in my voice is unmistakable.
“Until it comes to following the rules of a game you suggested.”
Shoulders sagging, I rub my temples and sigh. “That’s an impossible question.”
“So you would rather be lied to?” he asks, his voice lacking the condescension that I’m used to getting with Ian. He seems genuinely curious and somewhat taken aback.
I shake my head. “No one wants to be lied to. But painful truths aren’t always easy to come back from.”
He looks at me long and hard, his gaze searching. “So you’re happy? He’s good to you?” There’s a note of something deeper in his question, a concern that goes beyond casual interest.
With the tension building between us, I try to defuse it with my most genuine smile. “I’m happy.”
“So he’s good to you.”
I nod, even as a crease forms between my brows, curious about the direction of our conversation. “Yes.”
He leans back, his demeanor shifting as he nods in acknowledgment. “I think that’s dope that you found a good guy. I think you’re dope.”
“Thanks. And I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think you’re dope too.”
He lets out a smooth chuckle. “Well, I appreciate that.”
This is…refreshing. Last night’s closure was a game-changer for us…I think. Or have we stumbled into dangerous territory ? I shake that thought away. “I’ll do the dishes.” Pushing back from the table, I gather our plates.
“Just leave them in the sink. It’s fine.”
“It’s the least I can do.” Plates in hand, I navigate to the sink and turn on the faucet. “Where’s your dish soap?” Before I can adjust the temperature, Victor’s arm is there, eclipsing mine to turn off the faucet. “Back up.” My giggle is nervous and playful as I turn to face him. But the space between us is charged, too tight, our bodies nearly a breath apart.
I can’t help but stare at the line of his throat, traveling upward, taking in every detail until our eyes lock. It’s a moment suspended. The easy banter that was there seconds ago evaporates, leaving something more serious, more dangerous.
The sudden buzz of my phone shatters the moment, sending us staggering back like startled thieves in the night. “I better get that.”
“Yeah.” He steps back, a hand flying to the nape of his neck in a classic gesture of discomfort, then turns to the sink to busy himself, a distraction from whatever just happened—or almost happened—between us.
I force my gaze away from his, aware that it’s a mirror of my own flustered confusion, and reach for my phone.
Liv
Did you know Victor and Esme are in an open relationship???!? Like, all this fucking time. But now she’s freaking out that he probably fucked someone else last night.
“You’re in an open relationship?” I ask.
“Esme told you?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Not Esme. But are you?”
He puts down the soapy sponge he’s using to wash the dishes, his movements deliberate. “We are,” he admits.
“I don’t mean to sound so critical, like there’s something wrong with it. I’m just surprised, I guess.”
Esme’s had open relationships before, so this isn’t out of left field. But it’s usually not something she keeps a secret from me and Liv.
He turns slightly, his expression unreadable. “It’s not something I would discuss with her friends. I assumed you already knew.”
The question slips out, almost on its own. “Was it your idea?”
“No. It was hers.”
Really? Judging by Esme’s text last night, she’s having second thoughts. “Does Isabella know?”
“No. It’s not like I bring other women here. I wouldn’t do that.”
My curiosity pushes further. “So, how does that work?”
He arches an eyebrow, a shadow of a smirk on his face. “Like all open relationships work. Sometimes I fuck other girls, and sometimes she fucks other guys, but in the end, we’re together, in a committed relationship.”
“Were you with someone else last night?” I’m well aware that is none of my business. I’m asking for Esme. And maybe a little bit for me, but I can’t even begin to ask myself why.
“No, I didn’t have sex last night. I was out with the guys, remember?”
So he says. I scrape my teeth over my bottom lip. “Do you ever get jealous?”
“I’m not a jealous person.”
“And you’re sure that she’s not?” Because I sure as shit would be. Ian and I are more on the traditional side of things when it comes to monogamy. So, yeah. Not happening . But this isn’t about me. This is about Esme’s concerning text message last night.
A look of understanding dawns on his face. “I’ll call her to check in.”
“You should.”
He wipes his hands on a dish towel. “Leave the dishes in the sink.”
As he strides away, a strange tension settles in my chest. “Would you stop?”
He halts, his back facing me.
I push for an answer. “If she wanted you to stop, would you?”
Slowly, he turns, his eyes meeting mine across the distance. “I don’t know.”