Page 22

FIFTEEN

COURTNEY

The shower steam clings to my skin long after the water’s off and I’ve toweled myself dry.

My heart is pin balling between my ribs with all kinds of apprehension as I sit on the closed toilet, towel wrapped around me, phone in hand.

My gaze darts between Samson sprawled over my dirty clothes on the floor and the empty screen.

It takes all my willpower not to fall apart again. Mom and I don’t have the greatest relationship, but I hate it when we argue. Especially when it’s over Martin.

Swiping my phone open to our text exchange, I swallow down the briny blade cutting down the back of my throat. There’s nothing but the last text I sent her and the two green ticks that says she’s read it.

No text.

No call.

Because of course, once again, I’m the bad guy. For standing up to Martin. For feeling like she deserves better. For refusing to play nice with a man who throws words like knives and bottles like grenades.

A cold, wet nose nudges my ankle when I sit, staring at my phone for too long. As I lock my phone again, Samson’s awkwardly large paws hitch to my knees.

“You okay, buddy?” I ask for him to reply with a cheeky lick of my thigh before he pushes off and heads for the bathroom door. Tail wagging, tongue lolling out of his mouth in a goofy expression that lightens the weight in my chest.

“How does he do it, Sammy? How does your daddy know what I need all the time? ”

Samson’s head cants to the side with his eyes going big and curious as he yaps back with the sweetest puppy drawl that has me pushing to my feet.

“Okay… I’m coming, I know you’re getting FOMO.”

The growing critter is pawing at the door when I open it and he tumbles backwards, the tail wagging the dog far too enthusiastically for him to balance himself.

The giggle that bursts from me peels the tension from my bones. The cool air from the bedroom shocks my lungs with a pleasant burn.

Auguste is right—I need this. The distraction. The company.

And just like that, I’m dreading the moment he leaves. When I’m alone in this huge ass apartment with nothing and no one to focus on. Just me and my family drama.

Making quick work of getting myself dressed, I put on my panties and an extra-large t-shirt that I’ve had for too long. It’s comfy and covers all my private parts as I open the bedroom door and pause at the spiced scent that envelops me.

Coconut and ginger. My mouth is already watering when I head to the living area to be met with the sight of Auguste at the stove.

Cooking.

Since my parents divorced, I haven’t seen a man cooking. Let alone a man cooking for me.

And the smell—so warm, homey, deep enough that my chest aches.

Auguste doesn’t notice me right away.

He’s got his sleeves pushed to his elbows, his hair is a damp and frizzy mess from the rain. His broad back moves rhythmically as he stirs something in a skillet, wrist twisting with practiced ease.

I just stand here.

Watching.

Entranced.

Completely hypnotized by his ease, how it changes the air around me and seeps into my bones.

I’ve never felt anything like the giddy sensation fluttering through me. Part swoon, part butterflies, and part… part yearning . Like there’s a rope lassoed around my insides, pulling and tugging me to him harder with every second I dig my heels into the stone floor.

Auguste turns when Sammy bounds to him. Pawing at his legs for attention and maybe a taste of what’s in the pan.

“Bud, I can’t give you this, it’ll make you sic—” He stops, moving the skillet in his hand to the back of the stove .

I’m waiting for him to speak again, but he just stands there staring me out. Eyes darting up and down my body. The longer he looks, the weightier my limbs become, the tighter that lasso pulls.

“I made dinner,” he finally says with an audible swallow. “Shit, no. I’m making dinner… not made… still making… fuck …” Auguste mutters the last curse as he spins back to the stove and I join him in the kitchen area.

The quiet is too much. Even with the rustle of his movements and the bubbling and sizzling from the cooking.

“Sooooo… you bake and cook?” I croak.

He shrugs, wooden spoon in hand. “My mom has a thing about us knowing how to look after ourselves. She made sure we’d never go hungry. Taught us how to feed ourselves. Wash our clothes. Get ourselves home.”

My throat tightens at the fond way he’s smiling to himself as he talks about her. “Your mom sounds… amazing.” Like everything I wanted my mom to be—more invested in me, our relationship.

“She’s a badass.”

God, the way he says it. Like he adores her. Like he wants to be her proof.

“I wish I had that,” I admit quietly, the pit in my chest sinking deeper with the wet of my emotions burning behind my eyes.

Auguste looks at me— really looks . And something in his gaze makes me raw. Like he’s seeing all the way through me. Straight to that place that hurts. That envies him for this one thing.

“I hope you like curry,” he says. “I’ve made it mild so it doesn’t mess with your stomach… but it’ll warm you up just as well.”

My chest constricts. I clear my throat, blinking fast. “Smells incredible.”

A megawatt grin sucker punches the air from my lungs.

He’s so pleased with himself that an unexpected sense of accomplishment warms through me.

Like I did something good for him. Like my words might be enough gratitude for the man standing in the middle of the strange apartment, drawing in the walls so that they feel sturdier, safer, more like home.

“Sit,” Auguste orders, gesturing to the other side of the kitchen island with the breakfast bar overhang.

He watches me follow his instruction before going to the refrigerator and pulling out a clear bottle that he sets in front of me while he grabs a couple glasses .

“This is my childhood in a bottle. Frutee Cream Soda.” His green eyes are all lit up while he divides the bottle between our glasses. “It brings back the best memories of visiting my granny in Barbados with my siblings and our cousins.”

“How did you… where did you get it? All of this?” I ask, swilling the fizzy liquid around my glass. It smells sort of buttery and sweet—like cream soda, except there’s an added hint of caramelized sugar and tropical fruits.

Auguste takes a slow, savoring sip of his drink before he grins at me. “I know people.”

“You know people…?”

“Yeah, there’s this African-Caribbean store in town and they get certain things for me.”

“And they deliver them to your door?”

His face flushes a beautiful shade of bronzed pink that makes my thumbs itch to stroke over his sharp cheekbones.

“They sort of do it for me because the owner is Bajan and I gave his grandkid a few one-on-one lessons.”

“That’s sweet.”

“Oscar didn’t think so when I told he might be better as a goalie.”

“Oh no, you terrible dream crusher, you…”

Auguste chuckles at my remark, turning back to the stove.

“Food is ready,” he declares before he grabs a couple of bowls and starts piling rice into them followed by a ladle full of curry and some green beans. “My mom serves everything with green beans.”

“I never used to eat them as a child. My mom always—” My heart thuds awkwardly at the mention of her. It takes me a moment to shake off the sudden wrench in my chest. “My mom always overcooks them.”

“Same,” he chuckles, looking over his shoulder as he makes himself a bowl too. “I think it’s the one thing my mom can’t cook. But my granny, she always sautés them with garlic and ginger… it’s how I like them. I prefer them to broccoli.”

We eat at the breakfast bar, me sitting on one of the stools and him standing opposite me. The food is perfect—the kind of meal that wraps you up from the inside.

I finish without realizing. “That… that was the best thing I’ve had in a while.”

A quiet smile pulls at his lips as he swallows a forkful of his dinner. “Good.”

“You know, you shouldn’t eat standing up. It’s bad for you. ”

The content smile on his face shifts along with the easy energy rolling off him. I’m not sure what I’ve said or done, but he goes silent and still. Staring past me with a frown creasing the space between his brows.

“It’s how I always eat.” I watch the way he forks through the food in his bowl, wondering why when he adds, “I hate sitting at the dinner table alone.”

Oh. My heart lurches at the emotional twist of his lips.

Before I can think better of it, I grab his bowl and set it next to mine. Patting the stool next to me as I tell him, “You’re not eating alone right now.”

“You’re finished,” Auguste says with a sigh even though he rounds the kitchen island to come perch on the seat beside me.

“I eat fast.”

“That’s bad for you too.” His voice is soft, a little choked.

The sound undos something in me that I can’t contain again.

“Dinner wasn’t something I looked forward to as a child. Still don’t, actually.”

Auguste swivels his stool to face me, when I look at him, he asks, “Why?”

“Normally, I like eating alone.”

“Why?” When I shrug, he presses, “Tell me, Princess.”

While I debate the pros and cons, if I should or shouldn’t tell him, I try to bolster my frayed emotions with a deep breath.

“You can tell me anything, Court. You can trust me.”

I have every intention of getting up and cleaning up, avoiding the conversation I’ve allowed myself to fall into. Except, he turns my stool to face him and his eyes… his eyes bore right through me. Seeing. Daring.

“Eating alone is peaceful. I don’t have to worry about chewing too loud?—”

“You don’t chew loud,” he’s quick to say.

“The biggest issue is my mouth, what I say… my stepfather is particular about the way he runs his home, and I don’t humor his bullshit so…”

Auguste prickles—thick brows pulling together over his darkening forest stare. “So…?”

“We don’t see eye to eye which creates a hostile atmosphere and?—”

“Hostile.” I swallow and he asks, “How hostile? ”

The tears I’ve been forcing down since my shower prickle hotter, flooding my eyes.