Page 21

Twelve
Cari
I’m cutting it close. Instead of leaving the apartment at 8:45AM like I’m supposed to, I waited until the last possible moment. Loitering in the kitchen, fussing with my hair and make-up in the bathroom. Drinking a second cup of coffee—which I definitely did not need. I even turned on the television and watched the morning news. I’m waiting for Patrick to come out of his room. I’m not sure what I’m going to say to him if he does. I just know I need to see him.
These last six months have been torture. I know that’s my fault—that if I was just honest with him, tell him what I want, instead of letting Tess talk me into what she’s now calling Operation: Get Gilroy, I could either tear his clothes off and jump on his cock or accept the fact it’s never going to happen. Either way, I’d be putting myself out of my own misery.
I was already up when he left for his morning run, the urge to paint pulling me awake long before the sun. It’s like that sometimes. My fingers get itchy. I can’t sleep. I get irritable and testy… or maybe I’m itchy and irritable because I’m living with Patrick Gilroy and I haven’t had sex in six months. That’s probably it but since sex seems to be off the table where Patrick is concerned, painting is the only outlet I’ve got.
By the time he comes back, I’m lost. Drifting in the half-dream, half-frantic state that painting puts me in. I hear him and know exactly what he’s doing. Stripping his shirt off and dropping it into the laundry basket he’s moved from his room to beside the front door in preparation for laundry day. Moving through the living room, he makes his way into the kitchen and pours himself a cup of coffee. Even in the half here state I’m in, I know exactly what Patrick is doing and I know the precise moment he realizes I’m awake and comes to stand in my doorway.
I know what he looks like without his shirt off but damn if I don’t nearly swallow my tongue when I finally look at him. Perfect white teeth. Perfect brown hair. Perfect green eyes. Tall and lean. Smooth, sun-kissed skin—not a blemish or scar in sight. Broad shoulders that taper down, past tightly packed muscles into a pair of low slung track pants. I can smell him for here, clean sweat and sunshine. It makes my mouth water. Patrick isn’t hot. He’s beautiful. Probably the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Too beautiful and clean to ever want anything to do with a girl like me.
That’s when I catch him looking at my ass. The expression on his face is anything but clean. It was just for a second, so fast that I’m sure I imagined it. But I’m not imaging the rush of heat that shoots through me, pooling between my legs. I’m practically dripping wet and all he did was look at me.
I open my mouth to tell him I want him. That I’ve always wanted him, but that’s not what I say. Like an idiot, I tell him I made coffee even though he’s standing right in front of me with a cup of it his hand and after a few minutes of small talk, he heads for the shower.
As soon as I hear the bathroom door snap closed I drop my paint brush and follow him down the hall. Pressing my ear against the door, I can see the shadow of him moving in the light that creeps under the door. I listen as he starts the shower before pulling back the curtain to step in. I imagine him running the bar of soap he uses across his shoulders. Over his chest. Down his tightly packed abs. That’s when I hear it. I hear him.
A soft slapping sound so faint under the rush of water.
That’s when he says my name.
Cari.
The throbbing in my pussy intensifies, pulsing in time with my knocking heart. With my ear pressed to the door, I listen. I can see him, his perfect body tense, his beautiful lips parted slightly, his chest heaving, his breath pushing out of his lungs in short, uneven gasps that keep time with the hand that’s sliding up and down his gorgeous cock. I don’t even know what it looks like but I know it’s beautiful. Just like the rest of him.
Across the hall his phone goes off. Loud. It sounds like a fucking air horn. Not once, not twice. Over and over until I’m sure he’s going to hear it and stop what he’s doing. I dart across the hall and silence it. Bringing it with me I stand outside the door, hand on the knob. I don’t want to just listen anymore and I don’t want to rely on my imagination. I want to see Patrick. I want to see what he looks like when he comes.
In some sort of trance, I push the door open. I know he knows I’m in here, the bathroom door squeaks when you open it. But he doesn’t stop.
“Patrick.” My throat is burning, my hand gripping the hem of my shirt to keep from touching myself, the other reaching for the shower curtain. That’s when he comes, saying something low and guttural, the hand braced against the shower wall above his head curled into a fist. He knows I’m in here but doesn’t stop.
I lose my nerve. Looking down at the phone in my hand, I start babbling. Making excuses. “Your phone—”
“Get out, Cari,” he barks at me. He sounds angry that I’m there. Like I’m intruding. Not like Patrick at all.
“I—”
“Get the fuckout.”
I turn, tossing his phone on the bathroom counter and run, like the coward I am.
I slam my car door and hurry across the street, juggling my car keys, cell phone and morning yogurt. Opening the gallery at 10AM is my responsibility, which means I have to be here by 9:30AM to make coffee and confirm Miranda’s appointments for the day.
Hustling up the stairs, I shove my key into the lock and open the door. Noticing that the alarm is already turned off, I have a slight panic attack. I’m always the first one here and I know I set the alarm before I left last night.
Dumping my bag and yogurt on the floor at my feet, I clutch my keys and cell. Thanks to Patrick, my keys have a small can of mace attached to them and I have 911 on speed dial. I can hear him now. I hate the idea of you closing that place by yourself. It’s not safe. He’s gonna give me a big fat I told you so when I get home.
Inching my way around the stairwell wall, I expect to see paintings slashed out of their frames. Most of our artwork comes from local artists, struggling to make a name for themselves but we have more than a few pieces that come from well-established artists, any of which would be worth more than I make in a year.
I am so fired.
Poking my head into the gallery, I see what I see every morning. Beautiful art hanging on pristine white walls. Floor to ceiling windows, the strengthening summer sun streaming in through UV tint (to protect the paintings) to bounce off the flecks of pyrite in the dark granite floors.
I breathe a soft sigh of relief and stoop to retrieve my bag, sticking my yogurt into its side pocket before standing.
“Cari, can you please come in here.” Miranda’s voice cuts through the silence and I have to slap a hand over my mouth to keep from yelping out loud. I look at the clock on the wall behind my desk. She never shows her face before noon. What the hell is she doing here?