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Diem

I hung up the phone, shoving Tallus’s final statement from my head because the L word, even as a joke, was too much to process.

One month and thirteen days, and I still didn’t know how I’d ended up in a relationship. One month and thirteen days of flying on instinct and hoping I didn’t fuck up.

The fact that Tallus had nearly squealed with delight at my invitation was a good sign, right? When the call from Delaney Mandel had come in that afternoon and she’d relayed about her son’s condition, the alleged accident, the police’s dismissal, and her request for an investigation, I knew hers was not a situation I could handle alone. Too delicate. Too sensitive. Too… not me.

Tallus was right. I lacked tact. I lacked empathy. I lacked a filter, and my mouth had gotten me in plenty of trouble over the past thirty-five years. It was why my business was failing. Knowing Tallus would jump at the chance to join me in Port Hope, I arranged for Kitty to cover his shifts in the records department. Then, I decided to have some fun with him.

The surrealness of our relationship status remained. Boyfriends. Partners. Whatever you wanted to call it. The word hit right, and every time he spoke it casually in a sentence, I had to remind myself I wasn’t dreaming. I coveted the title. Cherished it. I had wanted it more than I expected.

With that want, however, came fear that I would lose Tallus by simply being me. I wore myself out trying to fill a position I wasn’t qualified for. Every day was like donning an ill-fitting shirt where the itchy material squeezed my body to the point of suffocation. All I wanted to do was tear it off, but then I’d be naked and vulnerable—alone—and I didn’t want that either. It was the discomfort of knowing a room was booby-trapped but not knowing what action would trip the wire, so you stood perfectly still and let life move around you, doing all you could to not disturb the balance.

Neither situation was good for my blood pressure, but I was coping. One step at a time.

One month and thirteen days, and Tallus hadn’t given up.

The best part of dating the too-hot-for-his-own-good records clerk was not having to come up with excuses to see him. Not having to spend endless hours sitting outside his apartment like a fucking stalker. It was knowing he didn’t bring guys home from Gasoline and shared his body with only me.

The downside of being in a relationship? Expectations. Fucking expectations. They would be the death of me.

Relationships by design came with a long list of requirements. Failure to meet those requirements was grounds for getting dumped. It meant spending quiet, intimate time together. It meant touching, sitting close, holding hands, and kissing. It meant communicating. It meant exchanging stories about your day.

It meant sharing a bed… and making love.

Every single one of those requirements challenged me.

Although Tallus recognized and accepted my struggles, he wanted to see effort. He wanted romance.

I was trying. Dear fucking god, I was trying, but in no universe were the words romance and Diem Krause synonymous.

I checked on Baby, ensuring the complex system that regulated her environment was running correctly since I planned to be gone for two days. Curled in her hollow log, she didn’t acknowledge my presence. “I’ll be back on Wednesday. Keep the bad guys out, and I’ll be sure to get the juiciest rodent I can for your next meal.” I paused, then added, “If the landlord comes by, tell him to fuck off. I’ll have his money next week.”

She didn’t respond. She wasn’t a fucking dog who would sulk and sit at the window, waiting for my return, but I liked it that way. We understood each other.

I scanned the single-room living space I rented that was attached to my office. If I didn’t pull a miracle out of my hat soon, I’d be on the street. My landlord had threatened eviction twice if I didn’t come up with the rest of his money. Between rent and bills and not enough jobs to cover expenses, I was screwed. I could only fend off bill collectors for so long before they sent me to collections. When that happened, I would have no choice but to file for bankruptcy.

Since winter had pummeled the city early that year, I donned a warmer jacket than my traditional trench coat, stuffed a knitted beanie and leather gloves into the pockets, snagged the gym bag I’d packed, and shoved my feet into warm boots. With the Jeep keys in hand, I headed out the door.

Knowing Tallus, he wouldn’t need the forty minutes I’d given him and would be in the parking garage before long, ready to bounce.

As I predicted, Tallus pulled into the covered lot ten minutes early, parking an aisle away in a visitor’s spot. He sashayed toward me, wearing a light jacket, no hat, and his work shoes. I’d have grumbled about his inappropriate clothing, but a beaming smile lit up his face and accentuated his high cheekbones, leaving me staggered and mute like always.

Tallus was fashion model material. In trendy jeans, a designer polo, and leather loafers, he looked like a million bucks. Knowing his spending habits, the assessment likely wasn’t far off. The come-fuck-me glasses were the icing on the cake. I’d known Tallus for a year, and the dark frames never failed to make my knees weak. They tipped the sexy-o-meter from a solid ten to infinity.

And he was fucking mine. Baffling.

Oozing confidence, he strutted right up to me without stopping—I’d been leaning against the back of the Jeep—and dropped his backpack to the ground before lifting to his toes, snagging my hips, and planting a wet, welcoming kiss on my mouth.

Better than candy.

The greeting had become commonplace, and I reveled at the contact, no longer flinching or tensing. I’d learned how to kiss him back, which was an accomplishment in itself.

“Hey, boyfriend,” he cooed when he broke free.

“Hey.” I choked on the single syllable. I wanted to tell him I loved his sass and spark, his walk, his style, his come-fuck-me frames. I wanted to fall to my knees and thank him for putting up with me. I wanted to pull him back against my mouth and savor his sweet candy taste.

Instead, I did what I always did and floundered, lost for words.

Playful as always, he bopped my nose like I was five and smirked. “PS, Guns, I don’t appreciate you messing with me like that on the phone. Rude. You had me going. My feelings were genuinely hurt. I sulked. It was not attractive. My mother witnessed it all.”

I bit the inside of my cheek, quelling a smile.

Tallus wasn’t fooled and pinched my chin, giving my head a shake. “Uh-huh. I see your smugness. You’re dying to laugh at me, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“Liar. I’m not accustomed to you making jokes. I admit, the surly edge worked in your favor. I really thought you would go off and have fun without me.”

I wet my lips, cleared my throat, and mumbled, “I didn’t want to go alone.”

“Aww. Are you afraid you’ll put your foot in your mouth?”

I grunted in affirmation. I’d lost more jobs because of my attitude and lack of filter than I cared to admit. The point of bringing Tallus into Shadowy Solutions was to better the business. Client retention was important. Clients brought jobs. Jobs paid money. Money covered rent and bills. It was how the world went round. Some people excelled, and some people were like me. A failure. Tallus was my opposite when it came to social affairs and communication.

Plus, having a drop-dead gorgeous co-worker who let me get him naked from time to time didn’t hurt either.

“Admit it. You needed my charming personality.”

“Always.”

“You’d have been lost without me.”

“Yes.” The raw honesty of that statement bled into my tone.

Tallus’s features softened, and he ran a hand over my head, drawing me down to his level so our foreheads touched. “You’re just a big ol’ cuddle bear, aren’t you?”

I growled teasingly under my breath, narrowing my eyes in mock aggravation.

Tallus chuckled and kissed me again. I melted at the contact and the feel of his body against mine. I never wanted it to end. The kiss. The relationship. None of it. I loved everything about Tallus’s free spirit. His mouth was bliss. His lips were the perfect amount of wet. His tongue was the perfect amount of playful.

Tentatively, still getting used to the idea of freely touching someone, I wrapped my arms around his middle and heaved him off the ground. Tallus was featherlight compared to the PRs I pulled at the gym.

He chuckled into the kiss and wrapped his legs around me, his fingers roving over my scalp.

Most of all, I loved the weight of him in my arms—in my life. Itchy sweater and booby-traps be damned. Having Tallus against me was a little taste of heaven in a life that had been nothing but hell.

He broke free from my mouth too soon, and the world spun in dizzying circles. Every muscle in my body ached with want and need. “Careful, D. Don’t want to start something we can’t finish.”

I growled for real that time.

“Plus, don’t we have somewhere to be?”

“Yeah.”

“Should we get going?”

“No.” I kissed him again. Eventually, the heady rush of blood drowning my senses leveled out, and I regretfully set him on his feet instead of heading upstairs.

***

With minimal traffic on a Sunday evening, we arrived in Port Hope shortly before nine. The bed and breakfast Delaney Mandel booked was flowery, frilly, and all things unbefitting of my personality. With a name like Ivory Lace, I should have known. I would have preferred a shithole motel than a get- personal-with-your-host B&B, but when the woman offering the job was loaded and insisted on choosing the accommodations, I didn’t argue. Like I’d told Tallus, we needed the money. Desperately.

Ivory Lace B&B was situated in an early nineteenth-century four-story brick home in the center of Port Hope. With its gingerbread trim, white-painted wraparound porch, and the abundance of tacky ornaments sitting proudly in the frosted windows, I should have known the place was run by an elderly couple.

The tended lawn sported dull grass and a few fall leaves that had been missed during a raking. Someone had worked hard at bedding down the gardens for winter, and the porch swing and outdoor chairs cradled decorative pillows and crocheted blankets similar to the ones I’d seen at Nana’s house. It reeked of crafty old woman.

The lobby and its flourishing adornments were enough to make me vomit. Not only was the space overly full and claustrophobic, with knickknacks and ornaments on every available surface, but floral potpourri choked the air and turned my stomach. Its rich, cloying odor was inescapable and eye-watering.

The wallpaper was flowery. The hanging prints were flowery. Even the print on a china tea set decorating a nearby table was flowery. Flowers filled vases and lined doorways. But it wasn’t the foliage that caught me off guard. It was the profusion of clocks. Gold, silver, and wooden framed clocks sat in uncountable numbers throughout the room. On high shelves, in cubby holes, on tables, and counters. Some stood proud in the corners, taller than me. The steady ticking was enough to make me clench my jaw. It was something out of a Stephen King novel. The noise penetrated my brain, attacking my sanity in an instant.

Before I could comment on the flowers, the smell, or the clocks, an overly friendly woman scurried from another room and greeted us with a flourish, introducing herself as Ivory Lace herself. Her voice was just this side of a squeal.

A crooked old man followed several steps behind, shuffling into the lobby with a face like plasticine. Ivory introduced him as Husband Herbert. More like Hospice Herbert. The guy seemed to be in perimortem rigor, which I didn’t think was a thing until now. His brittle stance made me fear he was about to topple over dead at any second.

Tallus, seemingly oblivious to the assault on the senses, cranked up the charm, turning into his jovial, lovable self while I stood back and tried not to take up too much space—which was hard to do when you were six and a half feet tall and over two hundred and sixty pounds of pure muscle.

Tallus secured our room key and signed the registry for both of us as he made small talk with spunky, curly-haired Ivory, who made him promise to be down for breakfast at eight o’clock sharp. She wagged a finger to punctuate her demand.

“You can’t miss the wake-up call, and everyone comes for breakfast. No exceptions. There will be bacon, sausage, eggs, toast, waffles, pancakes, hash browns… umm… homemade jam, scones, pastries, fruit, coffee, tea, juice… everything you can imagine.” She wore a beaming smile. “We serve it family style. We have ten guests under our roof tonight and twelve spots at the table. It’s perfect.”

“Lovely,” Tallus exclaimed. “We’ll be there.”

We won’t , I wanted to interject but held my tongue.

The woman’s husband, hunched and spindly Herbert, gestured with a stiff arm from one wooden door to the next, announcing, “Billiard tables. Library. Dining room. Stairs. Laundry…” His uninflected tone and limited movement made me think he’d tired of giving tours back in the sixties and would have much rather been anywhere else. Like in a coffin six feet under.

“Feel free to wander about,” Ivory said with a yellow-toothed grin. “The rooms upstairs are private and for guests, but the downstairs is free to be used by anyone staying here. Make yourself at home. There’s a piano, a pool table, a craft room, a—”

“Thank you. We’ll browse the house once we settle in our room,” Tallus said.

“Wonderful. Just ring-a-ding-ding the desk if you need anything.”

Tallus offered her a wink and spun on his heels, dangling the room key attached to a crocheted cat key chain in my face as he wiggled his brows. “Shall we, lover?”

I glanced at the corpse and his wife before muttering under my breath and heading toward the stairs, anxious to get away from the floral patterns, overwhelming smell, and raucous clocks.

In my desperation to ensure I had secured a civil barrier to stand between myself and Delaney Mandel—AKA Tallus—I hadn’t considered other details about what it meant to bring him along.

Important details.

Details that should have registered long before I mounted the stairs of Ivory Lace B&B and got to the room reserved for me and me alone.

So when Tallus unlocked the heavy wooden door and stepped inside, I stalled on the threshold, skin prickling with heat, heart rate skipping from ninety to nothing, dread filling my veins.

It wasn’t the abundance of pink churning my stomach—but dear god, it was as bad as the flowers downstairs. The walls were pink. The stacks of bath towels were pink and ruffled. The mini-wrapped soaps were pink. The shampoos, the curtains, the carpet, and the furniture were all various shades of grandmotherly rose.

But no, it wasn’t the pink that made me instantly sick. Nor was it that the incessant tick, tick, ticking from downstairs had followed me upstairs—on a quick scan, I counted no less than a dozen fanciful clocks. Plus, a wooden grandfather clock in the corner with a concerning peekaboo cuckoo’s nest.

No, it was not the pink nor the ticking timepieces that jacked up my blood pressure. It was the enormous king-size, four-poster bed with its ruffled quilt and arrangement of embroidered throw pillows that drew the saliva from my mouth and stilled the air in my lungs.

One bed. The room contained one bed. Of course it fucking did, and had I not been so worried about finances and ensuring I didn’t mess up with the wealthy mother whose son was mostly dead, I’d have been better prepared for this scenario.

One month and thirteen days.

This wouldn’t be a problem for any other couple, but Tallus and I had yet to share a bed overnight. It was an obstacle I’d struggled with since long before we shifted from nonboyfriends to boyfriends. Having sex in a bed was challenging enough, never mind sleeping beside him. It was an intimacy far outside my comfort zone. A line we had yet to cross.

“Well, my, my, my. This is an unexpected surprise.” Tallus tossed a grin over his shoulder as he approached the bed, spun, and sat with a bounce on the springy mattress. He leaned back on his elbows and kicked his shoes off as he studied me with a coy and flirtatious expression. “Let me guess. You didn’t think of this part, did you?”

“No.”

“And you’re having a mini heart attack right now, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Are we leaving?”

I scanned the room, avoiding eye contact and not answering the question. No sofa. No lounge chair. Not even enough floor space for a six-and-a-half-foot giant to stretch out.

One fucking bed.

“It’s king-size.” Tallus smoothed a hand over the bedspread.

I grunted noncommittally, shuffled into the room, closed the door, and dropped our bags on the floor.

“Are we staying?”

I still didn’t answer. Processing, I moved to the adjoining bathroom and poked my head inside. Claw-foot tub, vanity mirror, pedestal sink… frills, frills, frills. Flowers. And more fucking pink.

“This place looks like the Easter bunny threw up.”

“D?”

“And those clocks are going to drive me fucking ballistic.” I picked one off a nearby table and turned it over, searching for a battery compartment or some way to shut it up. But no, it was a windup clock, which meant granny Ivory went about her entire establishment regularly cranking a hundred and one of the stupid things, so they never quit. Who did that?

I debated the cost of smashing them all under a boot. How did anyone think with all this noise? No wonder Herbert looked ready for the grave. He’d lost his fucking mind living under this roof.

“D?”

“Her husband looked like death. It’s these clocks. He’d be saner in an asylum.”

“Diem?”

“And Christ, what’s with the fucking smell. It’s burning my nostrils. Isn’t it bad enough to have flowers everywhere? Do we need to burn the goddamn petals too? We should go to a motel. Fuck this. Fuck it.”

I moved to the doorway but felt the weight of Tallus’s disappointment. Stalling, I pivoted and paced to the window instead. It wasn’t the Easter bunny vomit decor. It wasn’t the mismatched metronomic pulse of too many fucking clocks. It wasn’t the gag-worthy scent of dried flowers and fresh flowers and too much old lady perfume.

It was the fucking bed. He knew it, and I knew it.

“We can go.”

“Shut up, Tallus. I’m fucking processing. Give me a minute.”

I cracked my knuckles and pushed the lacy pink curtain aside. I couldn’t see beyond the windowpane. The illuminated room against the dark of night cast my reflection in the glass. Tallus had shifted on the bed to face me, a defeated expression stealing his beauty. I put that there. Me. Me and my failures.

He caught my eye in the mirrored surface of the window. “Don’t you want to share a bed with me?”

“Yes. Of course I fucking do.” I turned and took in the space available to us. King-size. It was bigger than both our beds at home, but I still didn’t know if I could make it happen.

“Are we staying?”

Tentatively, I nodded.

“Maybe I can make the idea more enticing.” Kneeling in the middle of the mattress, Tallus removed his glasses and set them safely aside.

I watched as he slowly undressed, one piece of clothing at a time, until he was bare. It was a striptease meant to crumble my walls and weaken my resolve, and it worked. All thoughts of my predicament momentarily vanished. My anxiety shifted to lust. My body hardened with need.

I’d never been able to resist him.

Tallus crooked a finger, encouraging me to join him on the bed. My feet moved of their own volition. Maybe… maybe I could do it.

Sex between us had improved—sort of—but even the intense longing and desire to hold Tallus in my arms after orgasming wasn’t enough to keep me there. I tried, but every minute that passed mounted new anxiety.

When Tallus eventually slept, I snuck out of bed, dressed, and wandered the house of ticking clocks. They mocked me. It was as though they marked a countdown to the doomed end of my happy relationship.

Tallus deserved more. He deserved better.

I needed to get my shit together, or I would lose him.