Page 14 of 432 Hours

Page List


Font:  

She looked rough, though.

Her skin that looked like it should have had a golden hue, due to her other coloring, was pale. There were dark purple sleepless smudges under her eyes. Her hair was limp and a little greasy at the root.

And there was a bandage up her arm.

From the suicide attempt that wasn’t a suicide attempt.

She looked institutionalized and beaten down.

I understood that sort of thing better than she could have known, better than anyone around me could have known.

So, I got her need for a shower.

I didn’t even roll my eyes when, forty-five minutes later, the water was still splashing against the tile floors of her glass shower.

The only problem I was having with waiting was the fact that I couldn’t keep my fucking mind from thinking about her in that shower, soap sliding down her curves, my hands…

“Fuck,” I hissed, raking my hands down my face as I stood in her kitchen, making myself a cup of coffee.

“You alright?” a voice asked, startling me, making me realize I’d been so wrapped up in my little fantasy that I’d missed the fact that she’d not only cut off the shower, but gotten out, got lotion on, brushed out her hair, gotten changed, and even spritzed on more of that perfume that was all around her apartment.

She hadn’t changed into more casual loungewear.

Instead, she had on a pair of form-fitting black slacks with faint white pinstripes, and a white square-cut top that cut a little low and didn’t leave a whole lot to the imagination.

Her hair was still damp, the ends wetting the thin material of her top, making it see-through in spots.

She’d even taken the time to put on some mascara and some lipstick.

“I needed to feel like myself,” she explained, sensing the direction of my thoughts.

“I get that. Coffee’s hot. Chinese is… getting cold,” I told her, waving toward the bag on the counter.

“I’d eat it freezer-cold after days of hospital food,” she said, giving a little shiver. “I don’t even want to talk about the food,” she said as she grabbed heavy earthenware plates out of the cabinet, placing them on the island.

“How do you take your coffee?”

“Cream and sugar. A little extra sugar,” she told me as she started to pull the containers out of the bag, flipping open the tops to see what was inside of each, then starting to fill her plate up. “Thank you,” she said when I handed it to her. She reached for it like a lifeline, lifting it, and drinking the whole thing down in a few big gulps. “Now it’s time for wine,” she declared, going over toward the mini fridge, and pulling out a chilled bottle of white. “Am I drinking alone?” she asked as she got the corkscrew and got to work.

“Not if that is the wine you’re serving,” I said, raising a brow at the label. What can I say? When you enjoyed the company of many well-to-do ladies, you learned a thing or two about wine, even if you typically enjoyed a good glass of whiskey instead.

“Okay, help yourself,” she said when she had poured the glasses, grabbing her plate and some silverware, then making her way to the dining room.

I went ahead and grabbed some food too, knowing she would be more comfortable if she wasn’t eating alone, even if she wasn’t conscious of that fact.

Her dining area was a bit ostentatious for someone who seemed like they enjoyed most of her meals alone.

There was a long l-shaped gray couch-like chair with a tufted back that sat behind a long black table. On the other end, where Miranda was seated, were oversized black and gray striped chairs.

I slid into the booth-like section across from her, but not directly, not wanting to be in her space too much after having been in a situation where she very much had a bunch of strangers all up in her personal business.

I watched as she twirled some lo mein onto her fork then slid the food into her mouth, her eyes closing as she let out a little moan that did not, by any means, make my cock twitch.

“Oh, God, I missed food with flavor,” she said as she reached for her wine, drinking in big gulps, completely oblivious to the pricetag it came with.

And, I guess, if you were getting out of the mental hospital you’d been locked in against your will, yeah, you deserved a drink of something good without pesky concerns like cost.

“Okay. So, you’re Brock,” she said after a minute.


Tags: Jessica Gadziala Romance