Chapter 25
The food was on the stove, something warm and rich that filled the apartment with the smell of spices. But we weren't at the table. We were on the couch, my feet tucked under his thigh, his arm around my shoulders, the evening light fading softly through the curtains.
My mood had improved. It was hard to stay miserable when he was here, when his thumb traced slow patterns on my arm and the weight of him beside me made the rest of the world feel far away.
"Sienna praised me," I said, still processing it. "Actually praised me. She said I was competent, that I was more competent than she gave me credit for." I shook my head slowly, still marveling. "I almost fell over."
"Shocking," he said.
"I know." I tilted my head against his shoulder. "And then she said the client requested me specifically for the next phase."
His hand paused on my arm. "That's good."
"It is good, it's really good." I smiled at the ceiling. "And then she asked what changed. And I—" I couldn't stop the small laugh that left my lips. "I told her about you."
His thumb started moving again. "What did you tell her?"
"That you came into my life like a storm," I said, my face warming. "Unexpected, unplanned and very undeniably present."
He was quiet for a moment. "A storm?"
"You are."
"I thought I was a body pillow."
"You're multiple things."
That got a laugh out of him which I counted it as a win.
"And then she guessed it was a man," I continued. "From my eyes, she said they twinkle."
His thumb resumed its movement. "They do."
"Shut up."
"Just stating facts."
I leaned my head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. The comfortable quiet stretched between us, warm and easy, and for a moment I considered just leaving it there. Letting the day stay where it was.
"And then Oliver happened," I said.
The thumb stopped. Just for a moment then continued.
"He was wearing the watch," I said. "The Cartier. The one I left on his bedroom floor when I found them." I laughed, but there was no humor in it. "He had the audacity to wear it, right there on his wrist, looking completely unbothered. Like he deserved it."
I looked at him. His face was unreadable, but his jaw was tight.
"I saved for months for that watch, and then I left it on the floor because I couldn't think about anything except getting away."
He was quiet for a moment.
"You're rich, kitten," he said, his voice flat.
I blinked. "What?"
"You're rich." Still flat, something burning underneath. "Cutting coupons, removing groceries when they exceed budget, looking at price tags like they personally offend you but you have money for Cartier."
"Cas, listen to me—"
"No." He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. "Get your coat."
"What? Why?"
"You're buying me clothes."
I stared at him.
"Where are you—"
"You're rich." He grabbed my coat from the hook and held it out. "You can buy Cartier for men who betray you, so you can buy me something from the store."
"You're being ridiculous—"
"Am I?" His eyes met mine, dark, something burning underneath. "You count every penny. You save every receipt. But you spent months of savings on him."
I tried saying something but I was speechless.
Was he jealous?
The realization hit me like a wave.
"Cas—"
"Put your coat on."
With a long sigh I put my coat on and followed the man who was storming out.
The store was too bright, lights, rows of clothes, the faint smell of new fabric and something chemical. He walked through the aisles like he owned them, pulling things off racks and draping them over my arm without looking.
"This," he said. "And this. And this."
I looked at the price tags. My eyes went wide.
"Caspian, this is—"
"You're rich."
"I'm not rich!"
"You bought a Cartier watch."
I wanted to strangle him and wanted to kiss him. I had no idea which feeling was stronger.
He added a jacket to the pile, then trousers, then a sweater that cost more than my grocery budget for two weeks.
"If you think I'm paying for all of this—"
"You will."
I stared at him. He stared back, jaw set, arms full of designer things he didn't need, standing there in his cheap plain clothes like the most unreasonable man alive.
"Fine," I said through my teeth. "Fine."
I gritted my teeth and paid.
The cashier gave me a sympathetic look which I ignored.
He wanted to go to a restaurant on the way back. I put my foot down.
"We have food at home," I said. "You made it. It's on the stove. We're eating it."
"We can eat it tomorrow"
"It won't be fresh."
"I'll reheat it."
"Caspian."
"Carter."
I grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the exit. He let me, but when I looked up he was wearing that insufferable almost-smile that made me want to push him into traffic.
"You're impossible," I said.
"You're cute when you're angry."
"I'm not angry, I'm—" I stopped.
Took a breath. "I'm going to kill you."
"You'd miss me."
I didn't dignify that with a response.
Our dinner was silent, not the comfortable kind from before, something heavier, the food between us mostly untouched. It was good, it was always good, but I barely tasted it. He sat across from me, not looking at me, his jaw still tight, hands steady on his fork.
I set mine down.
"Cas."
He looked up.
"I saved for months," I said, my voice quieter than I meant it to be. "Cutting out everything, no takeout, no taxis, no little luxuries, because I thought he was worth it. I thought he deserved something beautiful." I laughed, but it came out hollow.
"Three years, and I thought he loved me, so I saved and planned and bought him something I couldn't afford because I wanted him to know that someone saw him, that someone thought he was worth the sacrifice."
I looked down at my plate.
"And then I found them. And I couldn't think about anything except getting away. The watch was on the floor and I just— left it...! I could have asked for it back, but that would have meant talking to him, looking at his face, listening to his excuses."
I swallowed. "I'd rather lose the money than ever speak to that son of a bitch again."
Caspian was very still.
"And even if I got it back," I continued, "it would just remind me of him, every time I looked at it. I didn't want that. I didn't want to think about him anymore."
I picked up my fork, set it down again. "I regret it though, wasting that money on someone who never deserved it. If I could go back, I'd slap myself for being such a fool."
The kitchen was quiet. Then he moved.
His chair scraped against the floor and he crossed to my side, pulled me up, wrapped his arms around me, his face pressed into my hair. His chest was warm against mine.
"You're not a fool," he said.
I laughed into his shirt. "I kind of am."
"You're not." His arms tightened. "You're not."
I stood there for a moment, just letting him hold me, the kitchen quiet around us, the food forgotten. Then I pulled back and looked up at him.
"You're still an idiot," I said.
"I know."
"Dragging me to a store. Making me buy things I can't afford."
His mouth curved. "You can afford it. You're rich."
I punched his chest. He caught my fist, held it against him, and looked down at me.
"I'm sorry," he said.
I blinked. "What?"
"I'm sorry." His thumb traced my knuckles slowly. "I don't like thinking about you with him."
"He's nothing."
"I know."
"He's less than nothing."
"I know."
I looked at him — his jaw still tight but his eyes softer now, the storm behind them passed. His thumb was still moving against my knuckles, back and forth, like he didn't know he was doing it.
I turned my hand over and laced my fingers through his.