Page 46 of Who’s Playing You (In The Nick of Time #1)

SCOTTIE ANDERSON

I ’d never been so sore in my fucking life!

It was Monday afternoon and I was standing at the front of my afternoon M-W-F class, going over the syllabus and expectations this semester. I was thanking my lucky stars that the first class of the semester was always short, because I don’t think I could stand much longer.

I’d be done after this class, only needing to be in my office for about another hour before I could head home.

Home.

Nicholas’s home. My home.

The thought made me smile. And that’s something that I wouldn’t have thought possible with how last Friday evening had gone.

That honestly felt like a lifetime ago now.

This past weekend had been transformative, if I’m being honest.

Nicholas is… he’s everything.

I feel like a giddy school girl. A horny, needy, obsessively crushing school girl.

And I’m not even a little bit sorry about it, because the man makes me feel desired and alive !

I don’t think I’ve ever felt so alive in my life.

And it’s not just from the sex, which we had copious amounts of, but it’s his whole aura.

He’s smart, kind, funny, considerate, gentle, understanding, and his looks don’t hurt any, let alone his sexual prowess.

His muscular body is beyond delicious - he’s literally a walking wet dream.

I know we’re still young in our relationship and there are many things that we don’t know about one another, but I’ve never felt like this.

I’ve never felt this incredibly deep connection with anyone in my life. It feels like it’s at a molecular level, that’s how deep it feels.

I may just be swept up in a post-orgasmic state, I’m fully aware that that’s a real possibility, but still! I can’t deny that despite my initial hesitation, Nicholas is an incredible person. One whom I’m falling deeper and harder for every day.

As for me living with him, well that’s obviously way too fast. But after this weekend, truthfully speaking, I’m not in a rush to track Praveen down to see if I can crash with her.

Nicholas assured me he’d call the insurance for me today, as well as figure things out with Bessie, and I decided that I’d let him do that.

He adamantly insisted on doing it. Why not let him then? I was so utterly exhausted from all of the drama and trauma of last week, so when he quite literally insisted and begged me to let him, it felt like a relief.

So between that and this weekend’s events, I felt light. I felt truly happy for once.

With those new feelings lighting up all of my nervous system, I’d decided to live in the moment and bask in the glow of it all. I’d see what Nicholas found out with the insurance once we got home tonight, and from there I’d figure out my next steps.

He didn’t seem to mind me in his space, which is something I always worry about.

After my upbringing, I’m hyper aware of myself if I’m ever sharing space with people, let alone occupying someone else’s space.

But Nicholas took it upon himself to litter my things all throughout his house.

I just watched as he brought all my clothes up to his bedroom and hung some of them in his closet, while he stuffed my oversized art books into the bookshelves in the once-empty office.

I also watched as he stuffed my baking tins, measuring cups and other kitchen crap into just about every shelf, drawer and cabinet in his kitchen.

He threw my throw blanket over his couch.

He dumped my sneakers on the floor in his mudroom before lining them up underneath the bench.

He even hung my half-finished paintings that I’d been keeping at my apartment instead of in my studio up on his walls.

Every time I tried to tell him this wasn’t necessary, it was as if I was kicking his puppy. He’d then reply that this was most certainly necessary and that he wanted me to feel at home.

On that note, he’d texted me about half a dozen times today pictures of furniture. The first had been a link to a couch, asking what I thought.

The second had been three different dining room sets that had tables and chairs along with a sideboard.

The third picture was of a headboard with dressers and nightstands, and let’s not forget the lamps. It felt like he was very passionate about the lamps.

Meanwhile, I was confused. Why the hell was he asking me? I’d told him I wasn’t an interior designer, and even though he’d called me his girlfriend - this felt next level. Like if he was truly serious about asking my opinion on this furniture, it felt like a huge deal.

Surprisingly though, with my new demeanor and outlook on life, I wasn’t having a full-blown panic attack over this.

Instead, after he went on about the lamps, I did chime in and we’d gone back and forth about color schemes and comfortable furniture as opposed to furniture that was just all for looks and not comfort.

It seemed that we actually had the same style: minimal-ish, we both liked clean lines with neutral colors - no frills or fluff.

We both gravitated towards the Scandinavian style of design, which was simple yet chic, utilitarian and comfortable.

And all of a sudden I was having fun picking out stuff that felt meaningful.

When I came home from school on Wednesday afternoon, I pulled into the barnyard where Nicholas and I parked the cars, only to find two moving trucks with about ten guys walking up the gang plank to the trucks, bringing furniture into the house like some sort of assembly line.

“Umm, hello?” I called out when I walked into the house.

The guys who were placing furniture inside the house on the first floor kind of just grunted and motioned towards the stairs while they continued on with their jobs.

When I looked to the stairs, an older gentleman who was short and stocky with a handlebar mustache grinned when he saw me.

“Oh hello!” he greeted me with such a joyous expression that I envied his wife.

“Mrs. Soba, I hope all the furniture is placed where your husband wanted it to go. He was very particular and detail-oriented when he placed the order and delivery. I can’t but admire a man who knows exactly what he wants and tells it how it is, am I right or am I right?” he said and winked at me.

But I was dumbfounded. Had he just said Mrs. Soba ?!

I managed to stumble, “Oh-ah, I’m sure it’s perfect. Thank you so much.”

“You got it, ma’am. We’ll be out of your hair in about five minutes. The boys are bringing in the couch now and that’s the last of it. We already removed the old couch. If you could just initial here, we’ll be all set.”

I did so, feeling so many emotions and questions flood my brain that all I could manage was to sink into one of the barstools by the kitchen island.

The same kitchen island that Nicholas hand-fed me just about every night.

Oh my God! Nicholas-Nick! SOBA!

Nat’s little brother… Mr. and Mrs. Soba’s son… whose house I was living in. Who I’d had sex with. Albeit the best sex I’d ever had in my entire life. And oh-my-God, I was robbing the cradle!

I was in full-blown meltdown mode.

He must know. He must know who I am… and is that why he was so damn evasive with his last name?

But… I fast-tracked through the last few weeks with Nicholas, examining every moment, every conversation, every touch…

He’s never lied to me - not directly - not to my knowledge at least. Is omission the same as lying though?

He told me he had always played sports. He went to Zeiders on a sports scholarship, and I know that he double majored. He told me he worked for The New York Rage football team, although he never told me precisely what he did there. Then again, I never asked either.

He introduced me to one of his best friends.

He introduced me to his mother ! But in all of the years that I went home with Nat and spoke to her mom and stepdad, I always called them Mr. and Mrs. Soba.

And if in any of those visits I heard one of them call the other by their first name, it hadn’t registered in my consciousness enough to recognize it when I spoke to his mom.

That all said, Nicholas hadn’t necessarily lied to me.

I didn’t want to flatter myself, but I couldn’t believe that he hadn’t connected the dots and knew who I was.

Unless… unless in the half a dozen or so times that I’d gone to his house years ago, he just regarded me as one of his sister’s friends and that was that.

No big deal. Nothing remarkable or memorable about it - about me.

Well, that was perfectly plausible too. I mean, he was all of like fifteen when I first met him. What fifteen year old boy cares about his older sister’s friend?

Yet, still… Gah! I hated it when I was so non-judgmental sometimes and always gave the benefit of the doubt instead of jumping to conclusions.

I really wanted to jump to conclusions about this and get mad, but my logical brain was weighing both sides and everything that was plausible in the situation.

All the moving guys were leaving and Mr. Handlebar Mustache Moving Boss lingered behind the last guy, “Alright, Mrs. Soba, you should be all set. If your husband has any problems, he’s got my personal number and I’ll be up here to fix it.

Just tell him to give me a jingle if need be. Have a good evening missus.”

I mumbled out a thank you from where I still sat in a daze. That’s where another shocking thought hit me: why did I like it so much that he called me Mrs. Soba?