But maybe for another reason.
&
nbsp; Because I don’t want to be here at all.
I want to be back at my house with my woman.
But she’s not mine. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
I was being honest with her. I’ve never felt anything like what my parents have before. Not until now, with her. But I don’t know how to do this—how to risk losing the friend I love to win the woman I love, knowing I can’t have them both. Maybe I’m foolish to think I could have more with her. She chose me because I have a reputation for knowing what to do in the bedroom, not because of my stellar track record with relationships.
Because that does not fucking exist.
I return to my desk, but there isn’t anything in my inbox from the ad agency, even though the clock is ticking closer to nine.
On impulse, I pull out my cell and text CJ.
Graham: What did you have for dinner, Butterfly? I’m hoping it was something much more delicious than the yogurt I stole from the staff fridge.
CJ: I actually haven’t eaten yet. I was too busy picking up Stephen King and grabbing groceries and cat food. My apartment is ready early so I decided to head home.
What? Head home?
For a second, the words make no sense. When I think of home, I think of my home, because with CJ there, it finally feels like a home. Like a place I want to hang out on a Wednesday night and watch movies, or lounge in bed on a Sunday morning with coffee and pancakes.
With her. All of it with her.
And a part of me just can’t process that she’s taken off like that, without a heads-up.
Graham: You left? You didn’t tell me. I didn’t think your place would be ready so soon.
CJ: I didn’t, either. But hey, miracles happen! It’s so nice to be home with the kitty. I think he missed me. He’s super cuddly and trying to eat my earring. Isn’t that sweet?
No. That’s not fucking sweet. She should be with me. Her crazy cat should be eating . . . a coaster in my house, a belt loop off my jeans, the top of the toothpaste tube.
Anything.
I rub my hand over the back of my neck, trying to make heads or tails of her departure. I cast about for something to say, something to make it clear I’d rather she be with me.
Graham: That’s great, but selfish bastard that I am, I was really enjoying having you with me.
I read it once more and hit send. I lean back in my chair and wait. That ought to at least start making it clear how I feel. I’ve never poured my heart out to a woman before, but I don’t see how she can fail to get the message from that.
I want more of her.
A few seconds later, a reply arrives, and I tense, hoping it’s her saying she’s called an Uber to meet me back at my place, to stay this night, then the next, then the next.
CJ: I enjoyed it, too. Of course I did. And I know we were supposed to have seven days of lessons, but it’s nearly a week, and after today I feel ready. I’ve learned all I need to make it on my own. But thank you so much. I’ll never forget how wonderful you were. You were everything I wanted in a teacher and more.
A teacher? That’s all I fucking was to her? A goddamn teacher she’ll never forget? I stare at her note. I turn my phone upside down, as if I can shake out the true meaning of her message.
But when I read it once more, those cold words mock me.
I was only her teacher.
I wasn’t her lover.
She was clear from the start. She wanted lessons in sex. She didn’t sign up for romance.