367 Days

by Jessica Gadziala

  My gaze went to his somewhere in the middle of his story, my brows drawn together. "Why are you telling me this?"

  "We all fuck up, babe. We do stupid shit. Especially where the opposite sex is concerned. It happened. It's over. Stop being so sore about it. What happened with Mike?"

  Stop being so sore about it.

  That made it sound a lot more simple than it was in reality.

  I shook my head, letting out a breath. "I fell in love with him."

  "And that is a bad thing because..."

  "Because he was married," I admitted, the shame of that reality making my gaze drop again, making my cheeks heat, making my belly twist up enough that I put down my chopsticks because I was pretty sure there was no way I was going to eat.

  "Alright..."

  "I didn't know at first," I rushed to add. To me, that was important. It didn't make what followed after any more forgivable, but I felt it at least took a small speck of the awfulness of the whole thing away.

  "But you knew eventually. That's why you can't make eye-contact right now," he guessed.

  "Mike was a lot of things- smart, successful, charming, handsome, cultured, funny, a good cook. Really, he was the whole package. I should have known men who are the whole package are almost never single."

  "How'd you find out?"

  "We had been dating for about four months when we had to stop at the food store because he was making some epic family recipe of his. It was apparently some kind of big deal to him to make it for me. I was just coming back from grabbing the green onions he forgot when I saw him kissing a pretty blonde woman's cheek. Then I watched as he put his items in her cart as this woman positively beamed at him. And it was right then that some inconsistencies started to stack and make sense. He was married. That was his wife."

  "What happened after that?"

  I snorted. "He left the food store with her. I watched him do it. He caught my eye on the way out, ducked his head, and just kept going. I had left my purse at home so I had no money to even call a cab. I had to walk home," I recalled, remembering how mad that particular part had made me. Not only was he a jackass cheater, not only had he made me the other woman, but then he had absolutely no concern about making sure I got home safely.

  "But that wasn't it."

  "It was for a long time. Then one night he showed up with two big suitcases. He said he had left his wife, that he wanted to start over with me, that he was a giant, unforgivable ass, but that he hoped I had it in me to forgive him."

  "So you did."

  "I loved him. Stupid of me, but that's not really something you have a lot of control over I guess. He moved in. Things were good for two weeks."

  "Until..." he prompted, putting down his chopsticks and planting his hands wide on the counter.

  "Until I woke up alone in the bed and went to look for him. When I walked past the bathroom, I heard him on the phone. He was telling his wife some bullshit about being at a conference and that he would be home soon. He missed her and loved her and... yeah. We were so done then." I paused, shaking my head at myself. "I should have known really. They never leave their wives."

  "That's not untrue," he agreed and I figured he would know a lot about that in his line of business. "What happened after?"

  "I found his wife and I told her. I let her scream at me because I felt I deserved it. Then I helped her figure out all the tired ass lies he fed her so if she wanted to pursue a loophole in their prenup, she could. And then... that was it," I said, shaking my head.

  "Hey," Sawyer's voice said, but suddenly it wasn't from across the counter, it was right at my side. When my head lifted, I looked right into his deep green eyes, his head ducked just a little so he could give me full eye-contact. "Three things," he started, giving me a small smile. "One, you didn't know at first. That doesn't make you the bad guy. That makes him the bad guy. Two, when you did know, it was over. And when he showed back up again, you believed him. That's what happens when you love someone, you believe them. You can't love someone and be suspicious of them all the time and doubt what they say when their words and actions all seem to point to them being truthful."

  I took a deep breath, finding I had been holding it, waiting for the judgement. Somehow, I was really worried he would think less of me. Why that mattered so much, I wasn't sure. But it did.

  "And three?" I asked when he didn't go on.

  "Three is simple," he said, reaching out and putting his forefinger under my chin, angling it up further. "Eric, Derek, Chris, and Michael were fucking idiots. They had you and they all fucked it up. Timir, we will have to leave out since he wanted to lock you down and you fucked it up," he added with a smirk that I felt myself smiling at. "You can't start doubting that you're a good person because other people dicked you over."

  His thumb moved out to stroke up my cheek and a small shiver moved through my body at the sweetness of it.

  I realized as I sat there with a man who was, for all intents and purposes, all but a stranger to me, that he actually knew me better than all the men aforementioned. That was a strange situation to find yourself in. Usually it took weeks or months or even years with someone for all the deep, hidden, dark, or dirty secrets to come out. Sawyer had learned them all in the matter of days. It was a truly unique circumstance to find myself in and it made me feel almost overwhelmingly vulnerable around him.

  "There's that look again," he said, his voice dropping a little, referencing the look I gave him that led him to kissing me the last time.

  "I can't help it," I admitted.

  "I know," he said, the corner of his lips tipping up, but the humor didn't quite reach his eyes, "I'm just so goddamn irresistible." I let out an unexpected snort that had that half-smile of his turning into a full one. "Yeah, that's good for the ego."

  "My life's mission- to stroke the ego of already cocky men."

  "There's two words in that sentence that I would like a lot more if they were put together," he teased, but there was a heat in his eyes again.

  "Stop," I said, shaking my head at him.

  "Stop what?"

  "Looking at me like you know..."

  "That you have on navy blue lace panties that half of your ass must hang out the bottom of?" he asked and was right. His body shifted slightly closer, his finger moving slowly down the column of my neck, over my clavicle, then down my chest. "I wonder if the bra matches," he mused, his gaze following his finger as it traced over the swell of my breast that didn't have a bra covering it at all. His fingertip slid over the hardened peak of my nipple, making my back arch as I took a deep breath. His air rushed out of him as his hand shifted sideways, his fingertips going toward the side of my breast as his thumb started gently moving over my nipple in circles.

  A low, almost inaudible whimper escaped my lips, but Sawyer heard it and his gaze rose, his eyes heavy-lidded as he watched me, taking my nipple between his thumb and forefinger and rolling it, making my hand slap down on the counter to keep on my own two feet at the rush of almost overpowering desire.

  But the sound, echoing out across the empty, quiet space, seemed to snap Sawyer out of it. His head jerked back slightly as his fingers released my nipple. His hand stayed there, splayed over my breast for a long moment, before sliding downward over my waist to settle at my hip. His fingers curled in, giving me a squeeze.

  He let out a long breath, the sound eerily similar to a sigh. "You're a bit too much of a temptation, Riya," he told me, voice still sexy-rough. Then he released me and moved around the counter again, picking up his chopsticks and putting a piece of sushi in his mouth. He chewed for a long minute, silently mulling something over. "So, you worked front desk at the clinic, right?"

  "Right," I agreed.

  He nodded, chewing, thinking. "Might have a job for you."

  My head snapped up, the insistent throbbing of my desire between my thighs ebbing away at the idea of having some semblance of a life again. "Really?"

  "Yeah. My brother, well, there's
no nice way to say this. He's a fucking slob. His office is a disgrace. You can dig him out from under his mess, I'll have him pay you. For now, under the table since you don't seem to exist right now. But I think we should have that handled by the middle of the week anyway. Figure you got to be going stir crazy sitting up here all day."

  "That's not untrue," I agreed. "Is your brother like you?"

  "You mean unfairly good looking, charming, and..." he started, trailing off when I let out a laugh. "You should do that more."

  "What? Laugh?"

  "That," he agreed, nodding. "And smile."

  "I'll keep that in mind. No, is he cocky and confrontational and..."

  "Barrett is," he smiled a little, a mix of brotherly love and big-brother annoyance in his face. "Barrett is in his own head a lot. It makes him great at what he does, but it makes him a little clueless on the interaction front. And it means that he has about ten used coffee cups on his desk at all times, usually almost spilling over onto the endless piles of paperwork he has stacked all over." He stopped to push a platter of food at me and I reached for my chopsticks again to put a piece in my mouth. "Oh, and you're probably going to have to learn some basic Polish."

  "To polish?" I mumbled over a mouthful of food, sure I misheard him.

  "Well, that too. But no, babe. Polish. The language."

  "Does he not speak English?" I asked, brows drawn together. There wasn't even a trace of an accent to Sawyer's speech.

  "Oh, he speaks English. Tending to use pretentious words and all that shit. No. He does it as a precautionary measure so no one can read his files. But you will need to be able to read at least the subject lines so you know where to file shit."

  "Was Barrett in the military too?"

  Sawyer chuckled, the sound low and deep and way too flipping sexy. "God no. Nah. Barrett was wrapped up with his computers and his true crime books and, apparently, learning some Slavic language."

  "What does he do?"

  "He's a PI too."

  "What? Really?" I asked, surprised.

  "Yeah. He started out working for me but didn't much like that and went out on his own."

  "I can't imagine why someone wouldn't want to work for you!" I drawled, teasing him and he smiled at it.

  "Barrett has no training. Not like me and Brock or even Tig for that matter. He belongs in the guts of the operation, tracking down leads, not putting his neck on the line. He didn't like that I wanted to keep him in the office all the time so one day I came in to find him gone. When I tracked him down, he opened this shoebox of a place and was taking clients."

  "Is he any good?"

  "He's fucking phenomenal. At his specialties. He is who I went to to compile a folder on you. I could have done it myself, but it would have taken twice as long and probably wouldn't have been as comprehensive. He's a lot better with the social media aspect. I was overseas when that shit all really exploded. I still don't have a goddamn Facebook profile."

  "What? You mean you don't repost a bunch of silly cat memes and bullshit pseudo-science articles? No way."

  "Think I'm stuck up, huh?" he asked.

  "I didn't say that."

  "No, but it's implied. You think I think I'm too good for cat memes."

  "No one is too good for cat memes," I insisted.

  "I'm more of a dog person, babe," he said, waving toward his giant beast, again asleep with his legs up in the air.

  "Dog memes are funny too."

  "Never gonna happen, slick. I don't give a flying fuck what half the people I went to high school are up to. I didn't like them then and I damn sure don't care who they married or what their kids look like. And I sure as fuck don't care to look at pictures of what they ate for fucking lunch."

  "You're such a cynic," I said, but smiling.

  "And you like that about me."

  "Well, I don't dislike it," I hedged, not wanting to admit that, thus far, I hadn't found too much to not like about him. He wasn't Mr. Congeniality. He was moody and grumpy and lost in his own thoughts a lot. And when he wasn't doing that, he was invasive, prying, sarcastic, and borderline rude. But somehow, it mixed all together to create a good man. I wonder who had made him that way.

  "What?" he asked, as if sensing my line of thinking.

  "Do you have any other family? Aside from your brother."

  "We got an old man around somewhere. He pops into town every now and again, throws back a couple shots with us, then heads right back out."

  "Your mother?"

  "Was a saint. Really. I was a little fuck, a real pain in the ass growing up."

  "Shocking."

  He small-eyed me for a second and shrugged. "Didn't matter how many times I got my ass dragged down to the principal's office or how many times a neighbor would threaten to call the cops because Brock and I were pulling some shit or another, she always just shrugged it off and said we would be good men if we got our 'bad boy-ing' out when we were young."

  I smiled at that, seeing a bit of logic there. "She passed?"

  "Third year after I was deployed. Didn't even get a pass to come to the funeral."

  "That's... awful," I said, shaking my head, remembering my own mother's funeral. I was pretty sure I had buried a huge chunk of myself with her that day.

  "Not a big believer in the ceremony of death, babe. Neither was my mom. If she knew any of us stood by a hole in the ground and cried as she got lowered in, she would have come back to life just to beat the ever loving shit out of us for being so stupid."

  "I take it you are a lot like your mother."

  "Got a healthy dose of both. Got my mom's cynicism and my dad's tenacity. He was military too."

  "Are you and your brother close?"

  "Depends on the day. We are oil and water a lot of the time, but there is a lot of love there. He comes here and we do the holiday thing, eating food Marg drops off because she feels bad for us." He paused and I could feel him watching me. "What's the matter?"

  I looked up, finding I needed to share, not caring that I was giving him more pieces of me when it was probably not a good idea. "I missed Christmas," I confided. "And Thanksgiving and New Years and my birthday and Valentine's Day..." I trailed off, taking a deep breath to fight off the tears I felt stinging my eyes.

  "I have no family left, but my mother had always instilled a deep love of the traditions of each holiday in me. Maybe I was alone, but for Thanksgiving, I made a small turkey and all the trimmings. I watched the parade. I ate until I had to take a nap. And for Christmas, I put up a tree and decorated it while listening to obnoxious Christmas music with the smell of cookies baking. I made a gingerbread house. I lined my apartment windows in twinkle lights. On New Years, I had champagne and I watched the ball drop. On my birthday, I treated myself to something ostentatious because my mother taught me it was important to spoil yourself sometimes..."

  "And on Valentine's Day?" he prompted when I trailed off.

  I smiled a little. "Well, I was single for the last one. But I never liked going out anyway. I liked eating a ton of chocolate and watching a movie while snuggled up on the couch and..."

  "And?" he asked, knowing damn well what was going to follow.

  But I rose my eyes and met his. "And have sex or make love or fuck until it was no longer Valentine's Day anymore."

  "Solid way to celebrate."

  "How do you usually celebrate?"

  "I work," he said, snorting.

  "You've never been with someone on Valentine's Day?"

  "I'm not a slut, Riya, but I haven't exactly been the settling down sort either. So I don't promise women things I don't think I am capable of."

  "Fidelity," I guessed, starting to wonder if that was the entire male sex that wasn't capable of it.

  "Not fidelity," he said, rolling his eyes. "I can keep my dick in my pants. I'm not some fucking teenager."

  "Then what?"

  "A steady schedule. A shoulder to sleep on every single night. A guarantee that I won't have to snea
k out of some family gathering because something came up."

  "So you just aren't the settling down type."

  "I think everyone is the settling down type in a way. But my work isn't a nine to five. Sometimes I need to drag my ass out of bed at 3AM on a Sunday to go drag some junkie out of a crack den and drag his ass to rehab. Sometimes I need to follow some dickhead businessman across country to catch him banging his mistress. Or, more likely, a hooker. Many women aren't okay with that."

  "Especially if you have kids," I agreed.

  "Speaking of," he said, delving into the seaweed salad. "You got your tubes tied at eighteen?"

  I shrugged at that. "I know. That's everyone's response. It's usually followed by 'what quack doctor would do a procedure like that on someone so young'."

  "You genuinely don't want to have kids?"

  "I genuinely don't want to have kids," I said, lifting my chin, keeping my voice even. I had been having the 'kid talk' for as long as I could remember. It was amazing how many people thought they had a right to comment on my reproductive choices.

  But who will take care of you when you're old?

  Someone with a prescription pad, preferably.

  You'll change your mind when you meet the right man.

  Finding the 'right' man would mean one who respected my right to not birth babies.

  That's so selfish.

  To not create more kids when there were so many unloved children already in the world?

  "You've had a lot of practice saying that, huh?"

  "Saying you don't want to have biological children seems to be the modern day equivalent of saying you don't want to marry. You're seen as some weird cat-obsessed spinster lady with no heart."

  "But you want to adopt?"

  "Some day. When I am in a better place in life, yes. And only older children. I was older when I was adopted. My parents were older when they adopted me." I paused, shrugging. "I just think it's illogical to think you can't love an adopted child the way you could one who has your DNA. That is such a cold-hearted thing to think."