Chapter 69
TJ
Iopen the door to my bedroom and slip inside, holding two coffee mugs. A smile spreads across my face at the sight before me—beneath the covers, bathed in morning light, lies asleep the most beautiful girl in the world.
We didn’t stop at kissing in the townhouse. We christened the bedroom, then the closet, then the bathroom. It wasn’t how I expected it to happen, but I can’t complain. After all that, we ended up in my flat and had sex again.
We could have gone to Cornelia’s house, but she wanted to come here.
I know why, and it makes me happier. She wanted more and didn’t want to wait.
If we’d gone to her house, she would have had to go through her whole routine.
But when she’s not home, she sometimes skips parts, and when caught up in the moment, she lets it go entirely, without thinking something bad will happen because of it.
She rarely does that, but last night she did.
I sit on the bed beside her, and the movement must wake her because Cornelia opens her eyes.
She has bed hair and is wearing nothing but a blue-and-white-striped shirt of mine that brings out more of the blue in her eyes.
She looks utterly perfect. I wish I could take a mental photo of her right now.
She slept a lot. She was exhausted after everything we did. I, on the other hand? I barely slept. I was afraid it was all a dream, that I’d wake up and she’d be gone.
“Good morning,” she murmurs, with a smile.
I move closer to her and kiss her sweetly, gently—so different from last night, when it felt like we were trying to make up for all the lost time in one night. I don’t know if I should kiss her, but I want to.
I don’t know how I should act. But I decide to behave like I would have if none of the shit had happened. And that means kissing her whenever I want.
I pull away and tell her, “Good morning.”
She doesn’t look bothered by the kiss, and I let out a big breath.
I was worried that when she woke up, she’d regret what happened yesterday—that she’d feel disgusted to be here with me.
But she doesn’t seem to. Cornelia actually looks like she wants more, but instead of kissing her again, I pass her the mug with the chai latte.
She takes it with a soft smile, her fingers brushing mine as she does.
“Thank you,” she says, taking a sip from the mug.
She glances around the room, as if checking for any changes, and her gaze lands on something on top of my dresser—I wish she hadn’t noticed it.
If I’d known that dropping off blueprints at the townhouse would somehow lead to us ending up here, I would have hidden it.
But it’s too late now.
She narrows her eyes. “Is that my perfume? Did I forget it here?”
“Yes,” I lie.
It’s not hers.
Not Weberly’s
Not any other woman’s.
Everything of Weberly’s has been long gone, and after her, I haven’t hooked up with anyone other than the present company.
I don’t know if she bought it. Cornelia really takes care of her things. She rarely misplaces, loses, or forgets anything.
Technically, it’s her perfume—the one she always wears: Le Labo, Vanille 44, the one you can only buy in Paris. It’s not what the media thinks she wears; it’s more like what they think Annabelle does, but she has always loved the smell of vanilla.
But she didn’t buy the bottle sitting on top of my dresser. I did. It’s not the first bottle I’ve bought. Since the breakup, I’ve been spraying it sometimes around my room and inhaling the scent. Maybe it’s fucking weird, but every time I did, it calmed me.
She nods and moves closer, resting her head on my bare chest. I’m just wearing black joggers. I kiss the top of her head and inhale her. The real thing is better. We stay like this, cuddling for a few minutes, sipping our coffee.
I don’t want to ruin the moment, but since we’re already treading into uncomfortable conversation territory, I may as well dive deeper. Taking a deep breath, I ask her, “What are we now?”
She shifts off my chest and moves so she can look me in the eye. “What do you want us to be?”
“Best friends, confidants, lovers, my future,” I say the words without hesitation. “In short, I want us to be what we used to.”
Cornelia looks at the steam rising from my coffee, not answering for what feels like the longest seconds of my life.
I start to wonder if she’s beginning to find us together disgusting, if I was an idiot to think we could ever move on from what happened.
But before I can spiral further, she says quietly, “So do I.”
I lean in, taking the coffee mug from her hand and setting both hers and mine on the bedside table. Then I kiss her—softly and slowly—and against her lips, I murmur, “I love you.”
She whispers back, “I love you more.” The more is something new, something she didn’t use to say.