Chapter 9
Loch
You didn’t disappoint?
I drop my head in my hands, embarrassed for me. What the fuck am I doing?
I was right to leave, though. If I hadn’t, I would have kissed her right there in the hotel lobby. Who does that to someone in her situation?
She has a fucking concussion. And amnesia. Apparently, I think that’s a great time to hit on her. Fucking hell . . . I’m such an asshole.
Such a mind fuck.
Yesterday, she showed me a glimpse of her old self.
She was difficult and didn’t take any shit.
She dished it out in droves. Today, she’s pleasant to be around—sweet, almost naive—but it feels genuine.
How do I know which version of Tuesday is real?
Is it the woman I met in the coffee shop or the woman now?
If I give it time, I’m sure things will resolve naturally. Although selfishly, I’d rather keep the version of her that I’m getting to know. That’s not fair. She deserves her life back, even at the expense of our newfound relationship.
Relationship? No, I don’t do relationships. I need to get that out of my fucking head. It’s a friendship.
“You okay there, boss?”
“Just great, Brady,” I lie between my teeth, slumping back in the seat. Today will be hard to beat—good and bad. I stare out the window, wondering how badly I’ll fuck things up tomorrow.
I fill Brady in on the plan for the morning, then get out, dragging myself through the lobby of my building and into a waiting elevator.
Once I’m home, I toss my keys in the small bowl on the console just inside the front door, feeling victorious when they don’t slide over the edge like they do most days.
The solitary sound from the hard soles of my shoes fills the short entry feeding into the living room. I don’t expect to hear anything when I come home at night, but the barren echoing still bothers me two years after moving in.
It’s early, just past eleven.
I’m finally home. I don’t think I’ve been home at this hour in some time.
This is where I should feel most relaxed, easing under the covers and getting some rest. Instead, I’m changing into workout clothes and then heading upstairs to the building’s gym to burn through another hour or two, and hopefully some of this stress.
But running can’t stop my thoughts from spinning faster than the treadmill. Weights can’t exhaust my muscles enough to dull my mind. Focus. Stay in the moment.
I give it a solid twelve reps before I sit down on a bench and drop the dumbbells on the mat beside me.
Is it normal to be this stressed, to work so hard that you not only miss sunrises but also sunsets?
That I account for every daylight hour in billing minutes to clients, including not being able to enjoy my personal life even when it’s dark?
Every other attorney at Westcott Law was already married when they joined the firm.
Two had kids, and one is seven years older, while the others are decades ahead of me.
I don’t have time to see my friends or family enough.
I can’t imagine having enough time for a wife, much less a family right now.
Setting the weight bar on the rack, I droop forward on the bench and let my head hang down.
Sweat drips from my forehead, hitting my leg, and I take it as a sign.
I could stay longer but decide to push up and grab my towel.
Dragging it over my face and down my neck before wrapping it over my shoulders, I clean the equipment, grab my water, and head to the elevators.
Since it’s somewhere just past midnight, the building is quiet, and the elevator is empty, which is how I like it. Back in my apartment, I crank the shower faucet on, strip my clothes off, and toss them in the hamper. Stepping under the hot water equally heats my skin and soothes my muscles.
Planting my hand on the tile above my head, I close my eyes and let the water pummel the back of my neck. I know what I need . . . a release
Blue eyes.
Full hips.
“You’re too kind, Mr. Westcott,” she purred.
She’s been driving me crazy, but desire wins the war I’ve been waging with guilt. I didn’t help her to get laid. Fuck, I’m such a bastard. Right now, I don’t even fucking care. I give in to my carnal side, taking hold of my erection and sliding my fist down and slowly back up, easing into pleasure.
I see how she looks at me when she thinks I don’t notice. And the brazen exchange of stares we challenge each other with has me holding on tighter and pumping faster. When Tuesday licks those lips, I’m convinced she’ll be my undoing if I ever get the chance to have them wrapped around me.
I imagine her kneeling before me, her body soaked from the shower, her pussy wet for me, and the image has me close to the edge of a release.
Picturing that sexy mouth of hers sucking me off instead of my hand pumping hits just right, my release hitting harder.
“Oh fuck,” I groan just as I finish coming.
I stay like that until I catch my breath, only to open my eyes and find I’m alone. Fuck. I shake my head and swallow. She was so good, too. At least in my dreams.
Grinning as I wash up, I have no doubt the real thing will be even better.
I crash into bed just shy of one, finally ready to fall asleep.
Buzz . . .
Buzz . . .
Buzz . . .
Wait . . . what?
I open my eyes just enough to realize the buzzing isn’t part of a dream but real. “Oh shit!” I reach over to turn off the alarm on my phone before lunging out of bed. 7:10. “Fuck.”
Charcoal-gray suit anchored on a hook.
White shirt—crisp and clean pulled from a row of others.
Black tie will complete the look.
I told Tuesday seven forty-five, but here I am, the one running late. I never run behind, but I’ve been late to just about everything this week. Still shaking my head in disbelief, I rush into the bathroom to get ready.
Ten minutes later, I grab my keys and head for the elevators. I already know I’ll be stuck in traffic, but I still don’t want to add to it.
When the doors open, 16B stands straighter and smiles.
The brunette is attractive, but the last thing I intend to do is put a neighbor into the rotation.
That would get messy and fast. I don’t want to be forced to avoid my building or, worse, have to move because she’s catching feelings I have no intention of returning.
I don’t have time to think these days, much less get involved in a relationship. Though my stupid grin might reflect otherwise. But thinking about brown being Tuesday’s favorite color is so different. She’s different.
I shouldn’t be giving any more of my time away. I have clients who pay me a lot of money for every minute of my day.
Call me a sap for this woman, but she made it impossible to say no last night. Impossible by existing? Yeah, pretty much.
She’s been through hell and still going through it. I’m not going to pile on more problems. If she wants me there to make her day a little easier, I’ll be there.
The doors open, and I pivot my gaze to a man in a light-gray suit. I believe he lives on the twelfth floor. We exchange a gentlemanly nod, and then I stare blankly at the doors, keeping my eyes forward and on anything other than the pair of eyes burning a hole into my back.
16B is relentless in her efforts to get my attention, but ironically, we’ve never spoken beyond a basic greeting. Not a word.
Thankfully, the elevator makes no more stops, and as soon as we land on the first floor, the doors open. I rush across the lobby and push through the door but then come to a standstill on the sidewalk.
My car is usually at the curb. What the—I look left and then right. Brady’s nowhere to be found. What the—shit! I sent him to get Tuesday, which means I have ten minutes and six blocks to cover. Better get to running.
My thoughts race as fast as I am, and I hope I don’t break out in a sweat. It’s too late to worry about that. I’ll have to shower and change at the office. But I’m glad I didn’t drink much last night, or this run would be going differently.
It’s funny because I ordered the bourbon to relax. I didn’t need a stiff drink to help with the rough week. I just needed to spend a little time with Tuesday again to brighten my day.
I know how selfish it sounds, and I would never voice this aloud, but I judged her all wrong.
I’m not discounting the unprovoked attack, but I’m just as guilty for responding.
I should have ignored her, especially considering her mood matched mine.
I never intended for that conversation to end differently than it did—poorly.
But even then, something about her made it really fucking hard to resist.
There still is . . .
I’m in so much trouble.