Chapter 6
Titus
Inever should have gone downstairs the other night. I should have just left Mariah the way she was and suffered through an evening without cake. Instead, I’ve suffered through days of knowing the cameras around my house don’t come close to doing the chef haunting my home justice.
I knew she was pretty—even the lowest-grade gas station system couldn’t hide that—but I didn’t know she would stop me in my tracks. Leave me standing over her like a lecher, unable to do anything but stare at the woman soundly sleeping on the couch I’ve never even sat on.
And now, instead of working like I should be, I’m sitting here in my office chair, staring at her the same way. At least there’s no chance she’ll wake up and catch me this time.
I study her as she moves around the kitchen, assembling what I know will be another life-altering meal.
She spent most of yesterday in her robe—making me worry she might be getting sick—but this morning she came down in jeans and a sweater, her wavy blonde hair swept back into a loose ponytail.
And while she’s dressed, she still has a pinched look to her face. Like she’s not feeling great.
I don’t like it. Don’t like that she thinks she has to work even when she feels bad. I’m a grown man. I can figure out how to feed myself. I’ve been doing it for years. Maybe not well, but I’ve never gone hungry.
As she’s working at the stove, Mariah keeps pausing, pulling in a deep breath before taking a sip of her tea and going back to work. I stand up and start to pace, going back and forth in front of the screen because I can’t seem to make myself look away.
I should go down there. Tell her to go back to bed.
Only she won’t go back to bed. She’ll take one look at me and start asking questions. Even if she doesn’t say them out loud, I’ll know they’re there, racing through her brain, desperate to come out.
And I’ll be faced with the memory of a nightmare I do my best to hide from. To forget. It’s an impossible task, but I still try. The loss I suffered is still too painful to face, even after all this time.
I rub my chest, trying to ease the ache already building there as Mariah suddenly goes still, her eyes widening. A second later, she takes off running, headed straight for the half bath just off the kitchen.
An amount of familiarity strikes me, hitting from the same place I avoid. A memory of a time I had everything.
Mariah slowly walks back, wiping the back of one hand over her mouth before going to the sink to wash up.
For the first time, I’m glad for the way I live. The state I let my house devolve into. Because it’s the reason there was no hand soap for her to use in the bathroom. Probably not a towel either.
If she’d been able to freshen up behind the closed door, I might not start to connect the dots. Might not suspect it’s not an illness causing her suffering.
Is it possible Mariah’s pregnant?
I step closer, like I’ll be able to tell by looking at her. I won’t. God knows I’ve looked at her enough times that if she was visibly pregnant, I would have noticed.
Mariah finishes up my breakfast, and I track her path as she carries it up to the door. The last few days her knocking hasn’t been as quiet as it was initially. Now she bangs one side of her fist against the panel, shooting it a glare before walking away.
I wait until I see her back in the kitchen before I retrieve the food, then carry it to the desk the way I always do. But this time, instead of switching off the monitor, I leave it on, watching her as I eat.
Waiting for what I know is coming.
She doesn’t make me wait long.
“So is this just how it’s going to be?” Light brown eyes fuse to the camera. “We live in the same house and never see each other?” She snorts, rolling her eyes as she drinks a little of her tea. “Because I hope you know how fucking ridiculous that is.”
The anger in her tone has me sitting straighter almost as much as her choice of sentence amplifiers.
Mariah started talking to me the morning after I covered her up with the blanket, but it’s always been general chatter.
Occasionally lecturing me about the state of my house.
She’s mentioned how unimpressed with me her best friend Janie is so far.
That she can’t believe I have the view I do and still kept my curtains and blinds closed— a situation she rectified immediately upon moving in.
Technically, not a lot of it was flattering, but it was always said in a relatively indifferent tone. Nothing like the sharp delivery I’m getting now.
“I really didn’t want to have to do this.” Mariah shakes her head, one brow angling as her eyes meet mine. “But you haven’t really given me a choice.”
Shit. She’s coming up here.
My reaction isn’t at all what it should be. I’m not panicked or anxious about the fallout that will result from us meeting face-to-face.
Instead I’m… Excited.
Eager to see her again without the distortion of a camera between us.
And I can’t be. Eager or excited. For a myriad of reasons—including the possibility that she could be pregnant.
Because in general, women don’t get pregnant on their own. Which means there must be another man in her life.
I freeze. What the fuck. Another man?
I rake one hand through my hair before scrubbing it down my face.
I thought I was fine living the way I do.
That isolation didn’t affect me. But I’m a week into having Mariah under my roof and already considering myself a man in her life.
I haven’t even spoken to her, yet her face is the one I look forward to seeing every day.
I’ve never touched her, but the soft scent of her skin imprinted itself on my brain the night I covered her up and now follows me everywhere I go.
I swallow hard, warring with myself over what I’ll do when she knocks on my door.
But Mariah doesn’t knock on my door. She doesn’t come upstairs. She doesn’t try to force me to meet her the way I expect.
She does something much worse.
One by one, she goes through the house, covering each of my cameras. Cutting me off.
“No.” I shake my head. “She can’t do that.” Those are my cameras. This is my house. She can’t just—
Her voice carries through the black screen. “If I don’t get to see you, you don’t get to see me. You want your cameras back, you can uncover them yourself.”
I hold my breath, waiting for another word from her. Another hit of a drug I didn’t know I was abusing.
But Mariah goes silent, stealing every bit of herself from me.
Leaving me alone.
“Fine.” I switch off the monitor, rocking my head from side to side in an attempt to ease the tension already building up the sides of my neck. “If that’s how she wants this to be, that’s fine.” I shrug. “I don’t care.”
A few hours later, it is undeniable that I very much do care.
I’m jittery. Unable to focus. Unable to sit down.
And for some reason, it’s hilarious to me. I laugh at myself as I pace from one side of my office to the other, because why should this even matter? It’s not like we're friends. Not like we actually know each other.
I shouldn’t give a shit that I can’t watch her. That she isn’t talking to me. That she hasn’t made me another cake since the night I covered her up and stole the one she tried to use as bait.
All that should matter is she’s still doing what I pay her to do. My meals keep coming like clockwork. Breakfast at seven. Lunch at noon. Dinner at six.
For two days, I keep myself from opening the door just a little too early. Lingering in the hall just a little too long. At this point, I don’t know if it’s fear or stubbornness keeping me from giving her what she wants.
Probably a little of both.
By the third day, the stubbornness is wearing thin, and I’m going stir crazy in a way I never have before.
I used to sit in my house without leaving for weeks at a time.
Even then, I only left to go to my parents’, or one of my brothers' places.
I never wanted to put myself in a position where a stranger could stare at me.
And while Mariah's not a stranger, she will stare at me.
I make it all the way to dinner on the third night before I have an epiphany. An idea that might give us both a little of what we want.
After finishing every morsel on my tray, I stack the dishes, leaving an open area that won’t be missed. Laying the note I spent way too long agonizing over in that space, I slide the tray into the hall then stand behind the door, knowing full well I won’t hear her when she comes.
But I’ll sense it.
When Mariah finally comes, I close my eyes, straining for any noise or scent that might sneak around the door. But fuck Tucker and his overachieving nature, because not even a whisper of a sound reaches my ears.
Is this what withdrawal feels like? Because I’m fucking suffering. All I can do is hope that what I can give her is enough. That maybe somehow Mariah will understand I’m not hiding away because I don’t want to be around her.
I’m hiding, because I do.
More than anything, I want to see her again in the flesh. And there’s too many reasons that would be a terrible fucking idea.
Including the fact that I’m pretty confident she’s pregnant.