Page 19 of Dearly Unbeloved (Spicy in Seattle #3)

ROSE

Is there a reason you need to have such a loud alarm at the ass crack of dawn? - S

S ierra always sleeps in on Sunday mornings, but she sleeps in longer than usual the morning after. I guess I tired her out. It’s pretty inconvenient, considering I’m waiting to talk to her.

I sit at the kitchen island, bouncing my knee and watching condensation gather on the oat milk iced lavender latte I picked up for Sierra. The only reason I know her coffee order is because Jazz drinks the same thing. Why anyone wants to drink flower-flavored coffee is beyond me.

I usually drink my cold brew unsweetened with just a splash of almond milk, not because I like it, but because that’s what I’m used to.

The first time I ordered my favorite hazelnut mocha in front of my mom was the last time I ever ordered it.

She didn’t even have to say anything. She just looked between the drink and my waist with pursed lips.

I’m self-aware enough to know that my parents only have power over me if I let them, but it’s not that I really care what they think anymore.

Over the years, it’s become second nature to make decisions based on how I expect my parents would react.

It’s not that I don’t want to choose the things I want, I just don’t remember to.

That’s not to say I haven’t done anything for myself. I’m trying. There was the whole dropping out of med school thing, not to mention impulsively marrying my roommate, and even more impulsively suggesting we consummate said marriage.

The Rose of a few years ago would be scandalized.

Truthfully, the Rose of this morning is a little scandalized. I’m trying.

I take a sip of my plain-ass coffee and scrunch up my nose. Squaring my shoulders, I push back from the island, hop down from my stool, and brave Sierra’s kitchen cabinet.

We never intended to have separate cabinets when we moved in together, but just a few days living in the same apartment as Sierra was enough to make me separate everything.

We each have two and a half kitchen cabinets (though her stuff often creeps into my half of our shared cabinet).

We have half a fridge each, half a freezer each, and a small section of shared spices and condiments.

I tried to implement the same system in the rest of the apartment, but she has so much fucking stuff. It was a complete failure in the bathroom, so I just keep my stuff in a caddy in my room and take it with me when I need it like I’m in a goddamn college dorm.

I’m breaking a sacred roommate rule by rummaging around in Sierra’s stuff, inspecting the dozen half-empty bottles of coffee syrup, but what’s hers is mine and whatever the fuck else we probably said while legally tying ourselves to each other.

Everything is very… sticky. My skin crawls, and I grab the least sticky bottle I can see: s’mores. Could be worse, I suppose. I take the lid off my cold brew and pour a little of the syrup in, watching it swirl through the clear cup.

Our fridge is pretty bare, but I crouch down, looking through the bottles and jars at the back.

“What are you looking for?”

I sit up, banging my head on the glass. “Ouch. Fu—” I glare over my shoulder at Sierra, but the curse falls off my lips when I see her standing, sleepy, in nothing but a baggy sweatshirt and fluffy pink socks. “Could you not sneak up on me next time? Be a little louder.”

“What are you looking for?” she shouts sarcastically, and I wince.

“Coffee creamer.”

Sierra drops onto the stool opposite mine with a yawn. “We’re out. You don’t usually like creamer in your coffee.”

I stand up and close the fridge. “I wanted something sweeter today.”

“Is that for me?” Sierra asks, eyeing the latte, her brow furrowed.

“Yeah.”

She pulls it toward herself and sniffs, surprise flashing in her eyes, before turning to look at me. “There’s brown sugar ice cream in the freezer. Put a spoonful of that in your coffee. Trust me.”

Who the hell puts ice cream in coffee? I suppose it’s just frozen creamer, but still. I’m curious enough to try it, so I grab the ice cream and spoon a dollop on top of my coffee, using my straw to break it up and mix it in as much as possible.

Sierra watches me take a sip, and I can’t even pretend it’s not good. I really have to stop putting myself through plain coffee.

“It’s alright,” I say with a shrug, and Sierra snorts, seeing right through me.

“You bought me coffee.”

“Clearly. There’s a pistachio croissant in the box for you, too,” I say, and Sierra narrows her eyes at me.

“Dinner and breakfast? Careful, Cannon, people might start to think you like me.”

“It was supposed to be breakfast, but considering it’s”—I make a show of checking the time on my phone—“11:48, I think lunch would be more fitting. And I don’t like you. Quite the opposite.”

“Sundays are for sleeping in.” Sierra bites into the croissant and moans. I look away, pretending the sound doesn’t go right to my head. “So, what’s the occasion?”

I pick at the sticky label on my coffee cup as I answer. “We have shit to talk about today, and you’re more reasonable when you’re sugared and caffeinated.”

“I’m freshly fucked, and I just slept for eleven hours. I’m in a great mood.” She stretches out like a cat in the sun. “ But the sugar and caffeine are nice. Have you just been sitting around all morning waiting for me to wake up so we could talk?”

“No.” Yes. “I went for a run.” And couldn’t focus, so I came home after a half mile. “Then I finished my book and picked up the coffee and pastries.” I only had one chapter left, and I DoorDashed them.

Sierra attempts to hide a smile behind her coffee cup. “I’m sure. Okay, I’m listening. Talk.”

I take a long drag of the beautiful, sugary coffee before speaking. “Last night was a mistake.”

“Oh, wow. Who could’ve seen this coming? Not me. I’m so surprised,” Sierra replies, sarcasm dripping from her tongue.

“Can’t you take?—”

“Can’t you take anything seriously, Sierra?” she interrupts, trying to imitate me in a singsong voice that sounds nothing like me. “Or is it wife now?”

I scowl because, actually, yes, that’s exactly what I was going to say. Minus the wife part.

“This is serious. I don’t think we should do this.” Even to my own ears, I sound exhausted. Understandably so, considering I was awake all night, my mind whirring.

Sierra must hear it, because the smirk slides off her face in favor of a pinched expression. “Okay, I’ll hear you out. Did you not enjoy it? Because I sure as hell did. And I bet you’d have enjoyed it more if you’d have let me touch you.”

“I enjoyed it plenty. That’s not the problem.”

“So what’s the—oh.” Sierra crosses her arms. “You don’t like that you enjoyed it. Is that it? ”

I say nothing, and she rolls her eyes, laughing without a lick of humor.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Rose? This was your idea! Did you think sleeping together was just going to reaffirm how much you hate me? Sorry for exceeding your impossible expectations, I guess.”

If she’s trying to make me feel bad, it’s not working. “Are you done throwing a fit?”

“Are you done letting your own self-importance get in the way of you enjoying yourself?”

I gape at her. The audacity. “I… How dare… What the fuck?”

She snorts. “Eloquent. Okay, look, do I like that someone I despise made me come harder than anyone else ever has? Fuck no. Am I willing to look past that since we’re already in a shitty situation and I like orgasms? Sure. What’s the risk here, Rose? We’re tied together for three months, anyway.”

I know I’m fucked when Sierra, of all people, starts making sense.

“Okay, okay.” I hold up a hand. “I see your points. I don’t like that I see them, but I see them.

If we are going to keep doing this, we should have a more thorough conversation about likes and dislikes.

Honestly, I should’ve talked to you more before we started last night.

I’m sorry.” It’s not like me to go ahead without having those kinds of discussions, and I hate to think anything I did made her uncomfortable.

Sierra shrugs, catching her coffee straw with her tongue and taking a long sip before replying. “Maybe, but I liked everything you did last night, so no complaints here.”

That’s something. I don’t love that we’re clearly so sexually compatible—I’d much rather we were roommate compatible.

“In addition to what we talked about last night… Penetration? Toys? Other than Olivia Newton-John,” I say, sarcastically.

She gives me the middle finger before answering. “I’m good with both. Penetration-wise, I like fingers and toys, but I’m not a big strap person—giving or receiving. I can make it work if you’re into it, but it’s not my preference.”

“So you’re cool with dildos, just not the strap?” I could take or leave the strap element personally. I’ve been with plenty of people who liked them, and plenty who didn’t.

“Yeah. Something about it just feels… impersonal.”

I can see that. “Cool. Bondage? Impact?”

“I haven’t dabbled much in either, but I’m interested. Nothing too crazy impact-wise—spanking, sure, but maybe not like a whip or anything like that. Bondage… I don’t like the idea of cuffs, but ropes or chains or something like that, I could be into. I…” She trails off, blushing.

“What?”

She swallows. “There’s something about the possessiveness of bondage that appeals to me. Like, I’ve always been intrigued by the idea of a collar, maybe a leash.”

My eyes immediately zero in on the ring on her finger.

I’d be lying if I said seeing it there, knowing that—real or not—she’s claimed by me, wasn’t unbelievably hot.

I had to stop myself from drawing attention to it last night, because bringing up this sham marriage when she’s clearly cut up about it seemed unnecessarily cruel.

Calling her “wife” was already pushing it.

But if she likes possessiveness, and she’s interested in a collar… My mind whirs with ideas.

“Anything else you like or don’t?” I ask, and Sierra thinks about it for a second but shakes her head.

“I’m open to most things, and I’ll tell you if I don’t like something.”

“Good.”

“What about you? I could tell you were into what you were doing to me last night, but you didn’t let me touch you. Did I do something wrong?” She draws her lip between her teeth, looking concerned.

“Definitely not,” I assure her. “I just don’t always like to be touched.

Kind of. It’s more like I don’t always like to be the focus of touch.

Like, if you hold on to me or whatever, it’s cool, but if I feel like all the focus is on me, I can get overstimulated easily.

But that doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy last night.

I can be perfectly content, even if I’m not being touched. ”

Sierra’s shoulders slump, as if she’s relieved. “That makes sense. Will you tell me if you’re feeling overstimulated?”

“Of course. If we’re going to do this—and just so we’re clear, I still think it’s a terrible idea—then we have to communicate.”

“Your pessimism is noted,” Sierra replies, waving her hand dismissively. “But we’re doing it anyway, right? ”

Right. Because one night, and I’m already craving the taste of her again.

What could possibly go wrong?