Chapter 36 – Tessa
Chapter Thirty-Six
Tessa
The last of the boxes are packed.
Tiffany is at yoga, and Waffles is quietly curled up on her pillow, hopefully passing a little gas as he dreams.
The apartment feels strange without Tiffany’s music playing from somewhere in the distance or her voice narrating whatever crisis the instructor has invented for downward dog today. It’s just me, and the towers of cardboard.
I haven’t heard from Rowan in three days, which, I’ll admit, hurts my heart a little. It sits there like a bruise I keep pressing just to see if it still aches. I was hoping he would have stolen a car and chased me the whole way home, but that isn’t how real life works.
Rowan had a job to do. He didn’t have time to play hero.
I don’t blame him.
I’ve caused enough trouble in his life. He doesn’t need any more.
I scan the room once more, making sure I didn’t leave anything for Tiffany—toilet paper included—when a banging starts on the door. It’s loud and obnoxious and doesn’t stop when I yell, “I’m coming!”
I yank open the door without checking the peephole and see my not-so-much-of-a-hero. His pupils are dilated, and he’s breathing hard.
Maybe he chased me after all.
His broad chest rises and falls beneath a wrinkled shirt, hair windblown like he ran his hands through it a dozen times on the drive over. He looks equal parts irritated and relieved to see me.
“What are you doing here?” My words have a little bit of attitude behind them. A little bite to cover the fact that seeing him standing there sends something warm and reckless through my ribs.
“I need an ibuprofen,” he huffs out. One hand braces on the doorframe, fingers flexing against the wood.
“What?” What does this look like, a pharmacy?
“It’s packed up.” I love him, but not enough to dig through unlabeled boxes to find the pain reliever.
I gesture vaguely to the mountain range of cardboard behind me.
His brilliant green eyes stare back at me unimpressed. The kind of stare that says he’s already decided I’m being difficult and somehow finds it charming anyway. “Good. My back hurts, and I don’t want to help you pack.”
It takes me a minute to register his words. Then I snap back, “That’s the laziest thing I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth.”
He shrugs. “I’ve been moving furniture the last few days. I need a break.” His shoulders roll like he can still feel the weight of whatever he’s been carrying, and there’s a tightness around his mouth that tells me he’s more tired than he wants to admit.
“I—” I shake my head and go to close the door in his face, but he shoves his foot through before I can.
“I didn’t have room for all your shit.” He tips his chin at the several mounds of boxes. “I had to move some things out first.”
Okay. Did I lose some brain cells after spending the weekend at that stupid retreat?
“What are you talking about?”
He pushes through the door, minding the pile of dirty clothes that I planned to throw in the car unboxed. He steps over them like he’s offended by the sight of my laundry but is too focused to comment. “I’m not in the mood for your backtalk.”
“What backtalk?” Has he lost his fucking mind?
He waves a hand between us like everything I’ve said is “backtalk.” Like my entire personality has suddenly become one long inconvenience.
“Start loading your shit into the truck. There are some first-years waiting to help you.”
Forgive me, I’m still confused. Deeply, spiritually confused.
“What are you talking about? Did you come to help me move?” How did he know I was moving? I told almost no one. Tiffany knows because she has eyes. My landlord knows because rent exists. That’s about it.
Rowan’s eyes widen, and his teeth grind. A muscle jumps in his jaw, ticking like a warning light.
“I don’t care if I’m getting on your nerves,” I snap. “I’m just wondering what the fresh hell is going on here.” My pulse is climbing now, irritation tangling with something far more dangerous. Hope.
“You’re. Moving.” He says the words slowly, as if I can’t comprehend them otherwise. Each one clipped and deliberate.
“Yes. I. Know.” I say the words just as slowly. “What I’m asking is, what are you doing here?” I point at him for emphasis, because apparently, we’re both committed to being ridiculous.
He exhales, obviously super annoyed with me, and drags a hand down his face like patience has become physically exhausting. “I’m moving you and Waffles into my apartment.”
“First of all,” I start, “you could have led with that. Second of—”
I stop as the words settle. They don’t settle so much as crash into me like a dropped bookshelf.
He thinks I’m moving in with him.
No, no, no. I am moving back home and hopefully going to find a job instead of pursuing this whole attorney thing.
Clearly, that is not going to work out for me.
And frankly, I’m done worrying about it.
The fight has gone out of me in quiet little pieces these last few weeks, and I’m too tired to keep collecting them.
My therapist says to fight for the life I deserve.
I deserve a life that is not constantly haunted by my past mistakes.
I deserve a life where I don’t have to apologize for things I’ve made amends for.
I deserve mornings where my chest doesn’t tighten before I even open my eyes.
I deserve peace, even if it looks smaller than the dreams I started with.
“Is there a problem…” He draws the words out casually as if we’re discussing dinner plans. His hands slide into his pockets, posture loose. “Tessa.”
I take a deep breath and glance at Waffles, who is still asleep on Tiffany’s pillow. Completely unbothered. A furry little monk devoted to inner peace while my life combusts three feet away. “Yes,” I state, “I have a problem.”
His brow arches in a way that clearly shows his surprise. Like no woman in history has ever objected to being bulldozed by him before.
“You can’t just stroll in here, all sore from moving furniture, and demand I move in with you.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
“No?” He drags his finger across his lips absently, and dammit, I’d really love to kiss those lips right now. The gesture is thoughtless, almost lazy, which somehow makes it worse. No one has ever come for me before. Granted, I wish he had come three days ago, but I guess I shouldn’t be so picky.
“Yes, I mean, no. You can’t just come for me like I’m a hoodie you forgot at someone’s house.” My hands fly out as I talk, because apparently, my dignity has left the building and taken my composure with it.
A barely there smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. Slow and dangerous, like he knows exactly how much it irritates me. “I don’t wear hoodies.”
“That’s not the point,” I clap back. “Maybe I’ve made other plans.” I stand up straighter, lifting my chin like confidence can be manufactured through posture alone. “Maybe I’ve moved on.”
“Hmm…” He steps into my space, and the masculine scent of soap and pine surrounds me. Ah, fuck me. He’s about to say something very hot or very mean. Either one, I’ll likely enjoy. His shadow falls over me, broad shoulders blocking half the light from the hallway.
“Have you moved on, love? Is that what’s happened?”
I nod. “Yes. I’m moving.” My voice is steady enough to deserve an award.
He takes another step closer so we’re nose to nose. The heat rolling off him is unfair and probably illegal. “No, you aren’t.”
There it is. The blatant, shitty, masculine, territorial behavior that I loved so much in undergrad. The kind that should annoy me on principle and instead lands somewhere much lower in my body.
“Yes, I am. I already have a job.” I puff out my chest, hoping he won’t see past my lie. Hoping he won’t notice the way my pulse skitters when I challenge him.
“Oh, yeah?” I can feel the humor wafting out with the mintiness of his breath. “And where would that be?”
“I’m not telling you?” The answer comes out less confident than I intend, curling upward like a question because even my lies betray me.
He smiles a full-blown smile this time, and it’s seriously annoying. Why must he be this way? Why can’t he just leave me to sulk in my own failures and tuck tail all the way back home?
Because he’s a shit, that’s why.
“You don’t have a job, my love.” He reaches up and finds a piece of hair, wrapping it around his finger in a gentle movement. The softness of it clashes horribly with the arrogance coming out of his mouth. My stomach flips anyway.
“How do you know?”
There’s that damn smile again. “Because no one would hire you without my permission.”
Fuck him and his network of assholes.
I step back, putting some distance between us again. I need air. Possibly holy water. “It’s not in this county. Besides, why do you want me to move in with you? I’ve already cost you a job.” My voice drops on the last part, the bruise of it still tender.
His features darken as if mentioning last weekend is a no-no. The amusement vanishes so quickly it leaves the room colder. “You didn’t cost me a job.” He takes back the space I created. “In fact, you opened quite a few doors for us.”
Wait. Did he just say us?
The word hangs there. Us. Not a slip. Not an accident. Us.
“Uh, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I highly doubt Hale & Brooks will ever hire us after what they found out about me.” My throat tightens around the confession I didn’t mean to make. Shame has a nasty habit of sneaking into sentences.
“Hale & Brooks are done.” He chuckles. “They won’t be hiring from Havemeyer ever again.”
Color me intrigued. My irritation tilts sideways into curiosity so fast it gives me whiplash. “What? Why? What did you do?”
“That information will cost you.” He folds his arms across his chest, looking entirely too pleased with himself. Like a man holding matches beside a fire he started on purpose.
Of course, it will. “How much?”
Do I really want to know what happened after I left? Do I want to know why this man seems so confident, like nothing happened this weekend in the Hamptons?
He stands there, calm as a king returning to inspect his land.
I sigh and look up at the ceiling. The faint water stain above the light fixture suddenly becomes fascinating.
Who cares what it costs me? I mean, I’m moving, and Rowan is graduating and will be off to some high-dollar firm.
Surely, he won’t still be cashing in IOUs when he’s grown.
Will he? Knowing him, he’d have them itemized, notarized, and accruing interest.
I take another look at the man in front of me, who is, for once, dressed in casual clothes like he really has been moving furniture.
Faded jeans. A dark T-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders.
Hair a little messy. Sleeves pushed up. No suit, and no polished charm.
Just Rowan, somehow more dangerous dressed down than dressed up.
Does he really want me after everything I’ve put him through?
After every time I’ve chosen panic over trust?
I shake my head and face him. “I want to know. Whatever it costs me, I’ll pay it.” The words come out steadier than I feel, though my stomach twists like it knows I’ve just signed something binding.
“Deal.” He’s quick to seal my fate. Too quick. Like he’s been waiting for that exact sentence. “Rhys will contact you tonight with the information you desire.”
Okay, so now we’re back to business. Of course, we are. Leave it to Rowan to turn emotional need into a formal transaction. Somewhere in the distance, I can practically hear a gavel.
“And repayment?” I’m moving out tonight regardless. He can track me down if he wants me to pay some dumb IOU, but he won’t. You know how I know? He let me leave the last time I ran. He stood there and let me choose distance, and men like Rowan don’t usually make the same mistake twice.
The smile on his face can only be described as evil. “Waffles.”
My heart drops clear out of my chest and falls to my toes. “What?” The room narrows instantly.
“I want Waffles,” he clarifies for me. His tone is maddeningly calm, as if he’s requested a lamp and not my emotional support goblin.
“No, you don’t.” No. He doesn’t even like the dog. Why would he want him? He calls him names. He complains about the shedding.
He drags a finger over my lips sensually and then steps to the side. The touch is brief, warm, devastatingly casual. A distraction tactic, and an effective one.
“Wait!” I grab his arm and pull as hard as I can to prevent him from making his way to Waffles. “Please don’t take him.” Panic flashes through me so fast it tastes metallic. Waffles snores softly from the bed, blissfully unaware that custody negotiations have begun.
Politely, Rowan removes my hand. The courtesy somehow makes it worse. “I told you, Whitmore. Leaving me has its price. This time, I’m not offering you a freebie.” His eyes hold mine while his mouth curves like he’s enjoying every second of my outrage.
“The first-years will help you load a moving truck. After that, it’s up to you where it goes.”