Chapter 11
Bennett
On Wednesday morning, I’m putting my dirty breakfast dishes in the dishwasher when Zoe walks into the kitchen. She’s wearing that damn pencil skirt.
This is the first time I’ve seen her on a weekday morning since the day after she moved in, and I’m unprepared for it. I’m used to the mornings being my time. Sure, I can often hear her moving around upstairs as I get ready, but I don’t see her.
“Hi!” she says.
“You’re up early,” I remark.
“Only fifteen minutes.”
That might not sound like much, but little things about Zoe have the ability to affect me quite a bit.
“We have a team-building activity this afternoon,” she says, “and I have stuff to get done before then.”
She takes her offensive llamacorn mug out of the cupboard. I avert my eyes so I don’t stare at her ass, but I can’t help noticing that she’s humming and shaking her shoulders.
“See you later,” I say, grabbing my bag.
When I get home in the evening, Zoe isn’t downstairs, but she’s left a note with a smiley face on the fridge, telling me to help myself to the leftovers in the fridge.
She enters the kitchen when I’m nearly finished eating.
“How was the apartment?” I ask. I know she went to look at one after work.
“It wasn’t bad…”
“But?”
“The landlord creeped me out.”
“Don’t take it,” I say automatically.
“I won’t. It’s just a shame because it really was decent otherwise, and I’ve been looking for over two weeks without success.”
“If it takes you a few extra weeks, I don’t mind. You’re welcome to stay here.” The last thing I want is for Zoe to take an apartment owned by a creep because she feels like I’m kicking her out.
“Thank you,” she says, her face lighting up. “You’ve been very kind.”
“Would you like my help in your apartment search?”
“No, I can manage. For now.” She gets herself some fruit and heads back upstairs.
I’ve become used to having her here, and I find myself curiously distressed by the thought of her moving out. I’d lived alone for over a decade before she barreled into my life; I thought it would be more of an inconvenience to have a housemate.
What’s wrong with me?
At one thirty in the morning, I’m still awake.
It doesn’t usually take me over two hours to fall asleep, yet here I am.
With a sigh, I get out of bed and head to the kitchen, where I turn on the light above the table and make some herbal tea that promises to be calming.
I’ve just sat down with my phone—probably less calming than the tea—when I hear footsteps on the stairs.
Dammit.
Not that I expect Zoe to stay in her bedroom all night if she can’t sleep; she’s free to use the other rooms in my house. But the image of her in a pencil skirt is part of what’s keeping me awake, so I don’t think this is a good development.
“Hey.” Her voice is more subdued than when she came down for coffee. “Can’t sleep?”
I shake my head.
She’s wearing fuzzy pants with hearts. Her toes peek out of her slippers, and her socks have some kind of animal on them. Smiling sheep? Why on earth does this woman own socks with smiling sheep? And why is she wearing my hoodie?
“Sorry,” she says, following my gaze, “I still haven’t given it back to you. I’ll wash it first.”
“There’s no need,” I say.
“Are you sure? Then I guess you can have it now so I don’t forget.”
She sets her hands on the bottom of the hoodie. I can’t handle this; I can’t bear to see her undress, even though I know she has a T-shirt on underneath.
I hold up a hand. “Please don’t.”
To my distress, there’s a hint of pleading in my voice.
Zoe must hear it, too. Her hands freeze, and then she drops them to her sides. She sits down at the table, around the corner from where I’m seated. Her knee knocks against mine before she moves it away.
I close my eyes, that small amount of contact almost too much for me.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“I have a headache,” I lie.
She nods sympathetically.
“Why can’t you sleep?” I ask. The words seem loud in the quiet, dark house.
“I don’t know.”
“Your apartment search? Your lies to your parents?” I’m not sure why I keep talking. I guess I can’t deal with the silence tonight, not when she’s next to me.
She chuckles. “Do you ever lie to your parents? I can’t imagine what you would have needed to lie about.”
“You’d be surprised.”
She runs her finger over the table, tracing the grain of the wood. Her nails are short. Neat.
I used to struggle with insomnia a lot, but these days, it only happens every now and then. This isn’t the first time since she moved in—knowing there was someone else in the house made it harder to sleep the first few nights—but it’s the first time that she’s been up, too.
It feels illicit to sit at the kitchen table with Zoe, a younger woman wearing fuzzy pants and sheep socks. Those socks are an honest-to-god abomination; socks should be a single color.
And yet.
I have a premonition that I’m going to develop a fondness for sheep socks because they’ll remind me of her.
It’s ridiculous and inappropriate. She’s my little brother’s ex, for god’s sake.
And yet.
She’s wearing my hoodie, the one I loaned her when we went on our “date.” That was the day I covered her hand with mine. The day I stroked my fingers up her arm and she squeezed her thighs together.
I wish I hadn’t noticed.
I wish my brother hadn’t met her, because then she never would have shown up on my doorstep with that plan of hers. And I wouldn’t have agreed…and invited her to live with me.
So much of life? It’s just chance.
I got to where I am not only because of hard work, but because of luck—and some of that happened because I was terribly, terribly unlucky.
A few seconds can make all the difference. A few seconds, almost fourteen years ago, and I wouldn’t be sitting here right now; I’d have a different life.
This is what I think about in the middle of the night.
“How did you meet Clifton?” I ask.
“At a party.”
“A party,” I repeat, distaste in my voice. Admittedly, I’m playing it up to get a reaction, and I do get what I want: she smiles.
It affects me more than it should.
“I bet,” she says, “that you’d never do something as basic as going to a party.”
“Is that what you think of me, Zoe? You don’t see me as a party animal?”
She giggles delightfully.
I know I’m playing a dangerous game.
“Is it just because I refused to be the back end of a horse?” I ask. “Are you holding that against me?”
She pokes me in the side, and out of instinct, I grab her hand. Rather than letting go a moment later, I press it against my ribcage as my other hand moves to her face and cups her cheek.
She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t move away. I knew she wouldn’t, but somehow, this confirmation is…dizzying.
Her lips part, and she licks her top lip; my gaze tracks the path of her tongue.
Oh god. This is too much.
When I stroke my thumb over her cheekbone, she inhales sharply.
Shit.
I want to capture every little sound she makes and horde them for later. I want to kiss her mouth and feel her melt against me and…
Shit.
I release her and shove my chair back.
“Sorry,” I say. “I got carried away.”
She nods, a dazed look on her face, as I grab my lukewarm tea. I take the mug to my bedroom, where I shut the door and lean against it.
I haven’t kissed anyone properly in almost fourteen years, but somehow, I almost did it tonight, even though I swore I wouldn’t.
Zoe Shen, with her sheep socks and llamacorn mug, is not for me.
And yet.