“Sleep well?” I ask, syrupy-sweet.
“Not even a little.”
“Scarlett sleeping it off?” I ask easily like I don’t care at all.
“No. She left last night.”
I set the coffee down. The last thing I want is for him to know I was upset last night. “So. Want me to cook you some breakfast before our lesson today? Sounds like you burned off some calories.”
His jaw sets, and I wonder if he knows I’m faking my indifference.
“That’s all you have to say?”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t care I slept with someone last night?”
“Why would I?” I lie. “We agreed we wouldn’t be seen with anyone during our arrangement, but she came here. No one saw you or photographed you together, so I don’t see a problem.”
“So you wouldn’t mind if she came back again tonight?”
I offer him a slight shrug. “Should I care?”
Karl freezes, a stunned expression on his face. I don’t miss his death-grip on the coffee mug or the white knuckles encasing it.
He definitely doesn’t have the afterglow I’d expect to see after a good night of sex.
* * *
As much asI teased him about it, I don’t continue to offer myself up on a platter. For one, I’m starting to feel pathetic. Even though I know he wants me as much as I want him, a girl can only take so much rejection. I do have some self-respect, damn it.
And I don’t want to push him into inviting Scarlett again to deter me. My heart can only take so much.
During our lesson today, I keep my distance. I don’t touch him. I don’t insinuate or speak with double meaning. We keep our conversation on topic, and I think I make great strides on the guitar. Even Karl can’t hide his satisfaction at my progress.
After we finish work, I offer to cook dinner, despite how raw my fingertips are. I set the guitar down and stretch my hands, hoping to ease some of the pain. Karl catches a sight of my movements and says, “Come here.” He pats the spot next to him.
“What?”
“Sit next to me,” he says.
I blink at his hand on the cushion. I’ve kept a respectable distance all through our grueling lesson today. He moved on from strings to actually teaching me a few chords. While nothing resembles anything rhythmic yet, my hands are getting used to the movements.
But now it’s Karl closing distances between us. When I take too long to concede to his request, he leans forward, tucks an arm under my legs and the other behind my back, and scoots me over next to him. “Now relax,” he says, taking my hand in his.
He massages the tender muscle between my index finger and thumb. It’s painful at first as the overworked muscle and tendons scream at the kneading of Karl’s strong fingers, but then they ease into a calm relaxation, and I let my head fall to the backrest. I melt into the couch as Karl massages my hands and moan with pleasure at each firm, yet tender, massage.
“That feels amazing,” I moan—eyes closed.
Karl chuckles. “Maybe one day you’ll return the favor.”
After a thirty-minute massage, my stomach rumbles. We’re supposed to get a snow storm rolling in soon, and the frigid weather has me craving caldo de pollo.
Karl finds me in the kitchen when dinner is almost ready.
“That smells amazing,” Karl says as he grabs a glass of water.
“Thank you. It’s my mom’s recipe.”