Page 36
For hours I’ve laid here looking up at the doggie cam.
Every video I’ve dismissed on my socials about checking hotel rooms comes to mind.
Then each time I think back to last night, my thoughts run away with themselves.
To every moment Auguste and I have shared.
To the first time I invited him in and he knew where everything was.
When he cooked me dinner in my kitchen like it was his.
I’m going insane when my phone dings on my bedside table. Probably Delilah looking for her update. Well, I don’t have anything for her, so… I ignore it and force myself to get out of bed and straight into the shower.
There aren’t any cameras in here.
A wash of relief floods over me with a torrent of tears I didn’t know I was holding in. I can’t think coherently through my suffocated sobs. I have no clue why I’m crying. Whether it’s anger or sadness. Disappointment maybe?
I trusted Auguste. From that very first moment I opened my eyes to his. Too little or not, I gave him something I haven’t given anyone in a long time. The one thing I reserve for select people in my life.
Trust.
He took it and of all the nice gestures he’s done, the only one I really needed was his trust in return.
Trust that I would see him the way he sees me.
That I would feel what he feels. That in the end, in spite of all the walls I’ve built to protect myself, I see him through every crack his kindness has hammered into them.
That’s what hurts.
Because if there is one lesson I’ve learnt in life is that even good people do shitty things. Sometimes good intentions do more damage than shitty deeds.
Sucking in a deep breath, I focus on the scorching deluge running over my face. Eventually, the tears stop even though my mind is still racing with the push and pull of my feelings versus my emotions versus my heart pounding so much louder than my head.
Am I relaxed when I get out and get dressed for the day? Not a chance.
Anxiety is a living, breathing beast howling in my chest.
Which is why I have to leave these four walls. Go for a walk, spend the day at the beach… I haven’t spent any time soaking up the sun and discovering the popular sights of the city. That was on the pros list I made when Dad called me about the job with The Comets.
Grabbing my phone, I shove it in my purse without looking at it and go straight for the door. No looking back. No obsessing about the cameras in all the freaking nooks and crannies—like, seriously? Who even needs that many doggie cams?
I open the door, tripping over my own feet when I spot the huge-ass bouquet on the floor and freeze.
My heart lurches, wild and off-tempo. So hard that my hands press to my chest, making sure it doesn’t tumble out of my chest. I’m gobsmacked, staring at the giant bunch of daisies I almost tripped over .
My favorite flowers.
I glance at Auguste’s door. Unsure of whether I’m willing it to open or willing myself to stick to the plan and walk away.
Neither wins as I crouch and pick up the oddly heavy bouquet. I pause when I discover the blue box underneath, tied with the cutest daisy-patterned yellow ribbon.
A small note is tucked behind the awkward bow. I can just imagine his large fingers fumbling while trying to make it perfect, it’s that thought that has me picking up the box and going back inside my apartment.
Obviously, I know that gifts don’t mean shit. My mom has gotten a lot of “gifts” during the years. Not one of them marked any change in how Martin treats her.
But…
“Auguste is not Martin. Not all men are the same,” I tell myself as I place the box down on the entry sideboard and then steal a long inhale of the sweet, green scent of the flowers.
A small card is tucked into the bundle of daisies. Ivory with broderie scalloped edges and a #1 scrawled on the front in bright baby blue ink. Very familiar ink.
When I open it my stomach flutters at the sight of his messy joined up writing. It looks cute and funny all at once. More than that, it’s obvious he was trying really damn hard to make it look beautiful. That is enough to set off my tears again.
Then I read it and my entire DNA forgets to compute. My brain and my heart are on the fritz.
Courtney,
I knew what you needed before I earned the right to give it to you. I don’t know how to make it right because…
Honestly?
I would do it all over again. Having any piece of you in my world beats having nothing of you and…
I turn the card over for the rest of the note. When I come up empty, I glance at the one with a #2 scrawled on it, tucked into the ribbon on the box. Plucking it up unceremoniously, I open it .
…I don’t know how else to explain why I couldn’t resist the need to watch you or why I couldn’t stop. So maybe if I show you, you will understand.
I took your privacy…
So here is mine.
Auguste xox
P.S. Last night was the longest night of my life without your breaths lulling me to sleep.
The first thought that blooms should not be to open the box when I already know what’s in it. But it is, and I do.
Placing the flowers down with one last inhale, I wrangle the bow open and flip the lid of the box. An iPad sits on top with a post-it note stuck to the screen with the passcode: 96877 scribbled in his scratchy handwriting.
This one is better than the one in the cards. It’s messy and beautiful and real .
Exactly like the war in my head right now. My hands are shaking as I clutch either side of the box and debate giving in to the urge begging me to open the iPad and steal a glimpse of him. Of his place.
The feeling is staggering. The heaviness of the decision makes it impossible to step away.
Even though the voice of reason is telling me this is exactly what Auguste intended, to put me in his position. To lower me to his level… the other voice, the tragic romantic—as he called it—is chomping at the bit for just one small peek. Just one. I deserve that much, right?
Auguste has been watching me for weeks. A second’s glance isn’t the same.
That’s all it’ll be. A quick look.
Peeling the post-it off the screen, I stick it to the lid of the box before I take the iPad out.
Oh my.
I swallow the gasp that balls in my throat when I find my favorite pen underneath, nestled in a black heap of lace trimmed cotton. My panties.
Oh. My. God .
He took my panties the other night. My soaked panties.
Holy shit.
I pull them out, balling them in my free hand while I take in the other objects inside.
A crumpled receipt with the logo from the airline I flew to LA with. My receipt.
A paper napkin with light pink smudges on it. My napkin.
A black hair tie with a daisy charm on it. My hair tie.
A brand new tube of lip gloss. My lip gloss.
All hanging out with my favorite pen. Baby blue with an enamel daisy on the clip. It’s got bright baby blue ink that matches his notes.
Oh my.
I’m… speechless. Unsure of how I feel or should feel. My head says freak out.
Freak the fuck out.
The rest of me is a whole different story. My heart is giddy. My stomach fluttering like mad. And the goosebumps breaking all over my skin are electric.
“What the fuck is wrong with me?” I throw the panties back inside, slam the lid down and walk away.
I’m out the door. Slamming it behind me right as the elevator doors ping open and a tall blonde steps out.
Her black leggings cut off short of her belly button, leaving her toned abdomen in plain view all the way up to the top of her ribs, where her sports bra fails to contain her very generous tits.
My jaw hits the floor.
What the actual fuck?
“Oh hey,” Barbie croons with a finger wave while she strolls past me to Auguste’s door where she pauses, smiling over her shoulder at me. “Guess you’re the new neighbor. Rio moved out fast,” she chuckles to herself, pushing the door open and disappearing inside.
Did she just casually let herself into his place?
I’m frozen on the spot for a moment before I rush for the elevator. Totally gobsmacked.
What is happening?
How can he leave me flowers and—I glance down at my hand still clutching the iPad before shoving it into my crossbody purse.
This is insane.
Mercury must be in retrograde.
Or maybe Venus has gone bonkers .
Regardless, I march out of the building in the direction of the beach across the road. I’m in dire need of caffeination as I meander to the short pier where the small coffee shop Auguste took me to that first morning is situated.
My purse weighs a ton while I order a breakfast panini and coffee. Then I sit and it’s like the damn thing has a voice. A siren call.
I’m here. Don’t forget about me.
“How could I?” I grumble at myself, pushing the bag deeper into the seat so it’s not in my line of sight.
Does it work? Absolutely fucking not.
I’m losing my goddamn mind. Barbie’s stroll is on replay. Slow motion activated just to make it niggle that little bit more.
Fuck.
I shouldn’t.
I can’t .
Except… I do .
Yup, I grab the iPad as the server brings my coffee and sandwich. It’s the perfect reason to put the iPad down and think about something else. Enjoy the view of the ocean…
Nope, can’t do that.
I can’t appreciate the view, nor enjoy the creamy caramel foam with the burnt sugar sprinkles. Definitely can’t think about eating while every fucking image in my head is of Bombshell Barbie entering Auguste’s apartment like she belongs there.
Does she?
The question drolls on and on until I’m shaking in my seat. Every goddamn feeling vibrating through my bloodstream like a drug.
Talk about tripping balls. Maybe I should have listened to Delilah and picked some cheeky peach gummies. God knows I need the chill power right now.
My hands are shaking so much I can’t get my finger to hit the right numbers after I’ve all but given myself an aneurysm remembering the passcode.
“Nine-six-eight-seven… seven. Voilà,” I mutter at the screen as it comes to life.
There is one app on the home screen—a daisy tile—that when I tap darkens the screen with a staticky image.
After a few seconds it clears and I’m left with an open view of Auguste’s open plan living area.
Looks like mine, except it’s all darker tones.
Warm reds balanced out with deep charcoal and sandy tones .
It’s empty though, and that has my chest wringing so tight nothing is working as I swipe through the different feeds.
Stopping when I land on the hallway that resembles the one at my place where the bedrooms lead off and Samson is sitting outside one of the closed doors. Head canted, nose pressed to the wood.
The sound bar on the top of the screen starts lighting up and stupid me turns the volume up.
Is that?
Oh. My. God.
Is that buzzing ?
“Jesus, Lizzie, that’s so good,” Auguste’s deep voice echoes from the bedroom.
A giggle. “Want me to go a little harder?”
“Fuck, can you?”
The buzzing gets louder at the same time as he moans.
Every part of me shrivels from the inside out.
How could I have been so stupid?
Tears collect in my eyes faster than I can swallow them down.
When they start to rain down my face, I dig in my purse for the baseball cap I packed in case the sun got too hot for my scalp.
I pull it on, tugging it as low as it will go over my face before I drop enough money to cover the check and a tip before I throw everything else into my purse and head out.
I don’t know what to think.
I don’t know what to do.
I’m sad. So fucking sad that it makes me angry. Fuming.
“How dare he?” I spit at the tarmac as I cross the road back to our building. “How fucking dare he play me like this?”
Why the flowers and the cameras and the notes… all the fucking words that really, I should have known were too good to be true.
Stomping up the steps where he’s waited for me so many times, I curse each one out. A sailor would cover their ears if they could hear me.
Well, good.
The elevator doors ping open when I slap the call button. My heart is beating so fast, I’m as breathless when they open up on our floor as I would have been if I had raced up the stairs.
“Breathe. Goddamit, you pathetic idiot. Breathe .”
It should not take me as long as it does to get the key in my lock and open the door. I wish I hadn’t because the smell of the daisies hits me and instead of falling apart, I grab the bouquet and stomp to his door .
Assassination is the only thing on my mind when I smash the flowers all over it. I’m still going when the door opens and pulls back in time to miss the bald stems.
“Courtney?” He stands there staring at me.
Beautiful.
Definitely scared.
A whole lot dressed.
His hair is covered in a silky wrap, leaving his wide, green eyes on full display beneath his thick, bunched eyebrows.
Barbie appears behind him in her bombshell athleisure… and I die.
I die when I see the gun in her hand.
A massage gun. Although, after my psychotic break, a real gun might be called for.
“Oh my God.”
“I should go…” She murmurs. “Ansel and Micah are waiting for me.”
“Ansel and Micah…”
“Court, this is Lizzie. Micah’s mom and Ansel’s baby momma.”
“Ex-wife. I wish people would stop calling me his baby momma. Makes it sound like we’re a thing and we are so not.” Lizzie disappears inside at the same time as Auguste steps outside followed by Samson.
“I thought… I… I… I’m so sorry. Oh my God, Auguste…”
A lopsided grin cut his face with a deep chuckle.
“Why are you laughing?”
“Because,” he says, taking a step forward while Samson continues running around in circles around me, “you’re cute when you’re mad.”
“Fuck.”
This is mortifying. Humiliating. What kind of?—
I don’t finish the thought before I spin around and run.
Table of Contents
- Page 1
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- Page 28
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- Page 30
- Page 31
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 34
- Page 35
- Page 36 (Reading here)
- Page 37
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- Page 40
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- Page 67
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- Page 71