God, why am I like this?
“I eat all the time, Beau. I’d be dead if I didn’t.” I hate how snippy my tone comes out; the attitude is just auto-pilot at this point.
He shakes his head, his face still completely impassive and unreadable. My stomach churns, and if I had a father, right now I’d imagine this is what disappointing him feels like. “You can say what you want, Goldie, but I know.” He brings his hands together, weaving his fingers in a contemplative pose. But his voice is gentle yet focused, and his eyes don’t leave mine. “You can hide your problems. You can have an act to cover them up. But the people who love you will always know. And when they bring it up to you, and you’re uncomfortable, that’s when you know you gotta deal with it.”
The reflection of the flame leaps around his iris as I study him. “I may not understand your cut, but I knowpain. And I want you to know that if I notice you not eating, the conversation will be a lot different.”
“You’re warning me? You’re, what, threatening to tell Beck on me, and then you guys will sit me down and talk to me about it?” I fold my arms over my chest, letting my anger and indignation do the talking for me. “All because the last few times I was here, I didn’t eat.”
He is unphased by my attitude, and I hate it. He’s so sure, and he’s so right, too. And I hate feeling so goddamn seen. I can’t handle this right now.
“I don’t want to talk to Beck about this, not yet. Because she’s been worried about you, Goldie. Hell, I’m worried based on what she’s told me and what I see. But if I tell Beck, she won’t be sitting at a table talking about it. She’ll be dragging you down to a facility, checking you in.”
“Afacility?” I snort back, my jaw so tight I could pop a tooth if I’m not careful. “I’m not an addict, Beau. You’re way off–”
He holds up a palm, and I think we’re both a little surprised that it shuts me up. “Hey. Beck’s your girl. What kind of family would she be if she didn’t haul you away to get you better?”
I swallow, feeling so incredibly uncomfortable that when Beck walks into the kitchen, I get to my feet quickly. She doesn’t have the chance to pick up on the dense air between us because I’m pulling her into a hug and thanking her for dinner once again. I have to get the fuck out of this house. Get out from under these watchful eyes.
I’m fine, anyway. Maybe I don’t eat enough sometimes. Maybe in the past, it’s been a problem. But I had an interview today. And I’m so over what happened before. I’m fine.
I’m out the door and in my car in less than two minutes after Beck and I hug our goodbyes. I thank Beau with a warm smile but don’t dare to get an eye lecture from him, so I stare straight between his eyes when I say goodbye.
As soon as I’m home, with my back against the door, chain on and deadbolt flipped, my eyes fill with tears. I don’t know if it’s the tension of the day, the stress of the interview, the way Beau so openly confronted me out of pure love and concern… I slide down the door, melting into a heap, and cry. I cry so long and so deeply that I miss the fact my phone’s been ringing.
When the door behind me shakes from a gentle knock, I jerk forward, scrambling to get back on my feet. I look at my watch. It’s after nine o’clock because apparently, I’ve been sobbing on the floor for a solid forty-five minutes. Great, my face is going to look like swollen ass tomorrow.
With my eye to the peephole, I’m confused about why I’m seeing Atticus on the other side of the door. I pat beneath my eyes as if that’s going to undo the massive emotional breakdown written all over my face and pull the door open.
“What’s up?” I ask, keeping my voice steady and strong. My eyes never leave his even though I’m dying to let them roam over his body. I’ve been around this man many times, and yet as he stands in front of me on the other side of the apartment threshold, my body gets a little drunk off just how big he is.
He blinks a few times, and I don’t fight the silence and prod him for more. He came here, and I’m exhausted. He wants me to be real? Well, here I am. Too tired to respond. I put a hand on my hip, and we continue staring for what feels like both foreverandonly a moment.
“Beck’s been tryin’ to call you.”
“Is everything okay?” I ask instinctually because everyone knows it's not good when someone shows up at your door because they can’t get you on the phone. My heartbeat picks up. I step forward, bringing myself less than a foot away from him.
He nods. “Your zipper. She said you ran off before she could get your zipper for you.”
Oh fuck. That’s right. And… as much as my gut wants to fight his words that I “ran off,” I can’t because I really did run off. Cocking an eyebrow, I ask, “so she sent you?”
He grunts.
“I had something to talk about with Beau, and when I called, they mentioned they’d been tryin’ to call you.” He looks down at his boots, and I can’t believe it. He’s breaking eye contact, which means he’s either disinterested or stalling. I swallow hard as I wait for whatever is coming next. When his cavernous eyes come up to mine again, they’re somehow softer than I’ve ever seen like his body can’t let go of its death grip on being intimidating, but his eyes are telling me there’s something soft in there, somewhere maybe. “I was goin’ out, anyway. Told ‘em I’d come by and get your zipper.”
Then his eyes take a torturously slow trip across my body, exploring every inch of the terrain like a hungry explorer. My ankles, the subtle swell of my calves–made muscular from years of wearing pumps, my hips, and even my breasts. The grunt of approval that leaves him should make me scoff. But it doesn’t. Not at all. His earthy, raw “mmm” leaves my insides scorching and my pussy clenching.
I’m caught off guard by how much I’m physically aching for this man who, now that I’m looking him up and down, is filthy. Oil and dirt and other mysterious liquids painted across his clothes, staining his calloused hands and smeared on his cheek. But the way my lower half seizes in response is feral and undeniable.
So I simply turn, slowly untucking my blouse from where it’s been stashed in my skirt all day. Cool air stings my back as my skin is exposed to the drafty hallway. My nipples harden as warmth spreads through my entire chest at his first touch.
His hand comes down on my hip, two fingers on the fabric of my skirt, the other two against my bare skin. His hand is warm and rough-skinned, and I have to bite my bottom lip to prevent a moan from slipping out. I’ve never been touched by a man like this. A man so masculine that just his work-laden hand gets me dripping wet. A man so aggressively handsome that he can smell like wet leather fucked a gym sock and still make me want to masturbate to the idea of being fucked by him.Seriously.
His other hand connects with my zipper, and slowly, he tugs in short bursts until the tiny zipper is completely down. Reaching around, he takes my elbow and tugs one of my arms back. His fingertips skate down the inside of my forearm and slide into my palm. My stomach is full of butterfly wings and fireworks, but I keep my mouth closed and my chin high, refusing to give in to how good this is. Because he’s unzipping me, he didn’t come here to seduce me. To turn around and kiss him, to take those massive hands, put them on my body, and beg for more? Completely inappropriate, and I’d likely be rejected because I’m pretty sure this man sees me as a poser and nothing about him is fake whatsoever.
“Hold it, or it’ll fall,” he says gruffly.
He guides my fingers to the opening of my skirt, and after he has me pinching the spread fabric, he takes both of his hands back. I feel the loss between my legs. Something in my chest freefalls, crashing into a million shards of disappointment.