by Kim Bailey
“What we talking about over here ladies?” He asks in his stilted English, his shoulder brushing mine as he stands beside me—too close. He’s always too close.
“Zadie’s not feeling well,” Larissa blabs.
“Not good? You need a break?” Jean-Paul suggests, wrapping an around my shoulder.
“I’m fine. Really,” I assert, shooting Larissa a look of annoyance as I try unsuccessfully to shrug out of J.P.’s hold.
“You,” he says, pointing at Larissa. “Back to work. You,” he says, squeezing me into his side. “Come rest.”
My attempts to protest are blocked by backstabbing Larissa. “No problem, boss! You really look bad, Zee, just go sit down.”
Traitor.
Normally, I’d continue fighting them. Letting someone else pick up my slack is not an option. Hell, just the inference that I’d leave any slack to pick up normally pisses me off. I refuse to be anyone else’s burden—refuse—but at this point, with the way that I’m feeling, I really may be dying. I can’t find a single ounce of energy to argue.
Giving in, I allow J.P. to angle me toward the break room, which also doubles as the manager’s office, and the supply closet.
The hand on my back becomes less of an annoyance, and more of a requirement to help hold me up. My feet practically drag as he guides me through the door into the half-lit room and toward the couch. Many employees have eaten, slept, and done who-knows-what-else on this couch. It’s gross. But, right now, it looks incredibly inviting. I let my exhaustion take over. Ignoring the normally scary stains, I plop down ungracefully into its lumpy goodness. It feels pretty damn good too.
Unfortunately, J.P. sits right alongside me.
“The hair looks good,” he compliments.
My hair looks the same as it does every day—messy and untamed. Fuck, this guy is annoying and sitting way too close for comfort.
“J.P., I’m too tired to talk right now.”
“Is that what’s wrong?” he asks innocently. “I thought maybe you’re still upset because you broke-up with the boyfriend. I hear it was nasty.”
How does everyone I work with know about this? I need to stop telling Larissa things.
“Well, it hasn’t been that long.”
“What about that other guy?”
“What other guy?”
“The one who bought all your drinks—the kid with the hair. Remember, the night when you were supposed to be working, but got drunk instead?”
“I didn’t know you’d changed the schedule,” I argue, doing my best to avoid the question. “No one told me I was supposed to work. I came in to drink, and that’s exactly what I did. There’s no shame in that.”
“I know it was a mistake. I didn’t fire you, right?”
“You can’t fire me, you’re not in charge.”
It’s true and we all love bothering him about it. Even though he’s the only semblance of a manager we ever see, he has no real power. It drives him crazy. And it was absolutely the wrong thing to say. I realize it the moment the words leave my mouth. The vein in his forehead pops out, his face turning a light shade of crimson.
Everything about him turns me off. His slicked back hair. His manicured mustache. His overpriced clothes. The way he touches me without permission. All of it. But, as creepy as I find him, I don’t want to piss him off—not when I still have to work with him.
“Sorry, that’s not what I meant,” I backtrack.
“It’s fine, Zee,” he says, voice tight. “So, who was that guy?” Damn, I’ve upset him and still didn’t avoid the question.
“Caleb. He’s Chantal’s cousin.” I opt for the easy answer, but just saying his name has me thinking about him again. That gorgeous flow of hair. His easy smile. The rebel vibe he effortlessly mixes with intellect and confidence. His spectacular green eyes. I swear those fantastic emerald orbs looked right into my soul.
Truthfully, I haven’t stopped thinking about him.
When I startled awake in class today, it was from a rather erotic dream about the one and only Caleb Anderson. He’s been the object of my every fantasy. Talking with him, sleeping beside him, kissing him. Reality’s enough to turn me on, but add in the other things I’ve been dreaming up...
I flush hot thinking about it.
“You’re really not feeling well, huh?” J.P. asks, jolting me out of my Caleb musings as he presses his hand to my forehead.
I’d be offended or irritated by him touching me, if I had the energy for that. Right now, I couldn’t care less, as long as it’s just his hand and as long as it doesn’t stray any further.
“I think I must have picked up a virus,” I say, continuing my charade of illness. “Maybe something Chante brought home from the hospital?”
“Blech,” he spits out, his whole body oddly convulsing as he jumps away. “I should get back to work, but you should stay here for now. Rest.”
Leaving no time for me to reply, he practically runs out the door, allowing me to suffer in peace and quiet. At least, as much peace and quiet as a person can get in the back room of a nightclub. If I’d known I could get rid of him so easily, I’d have gone with that as my opening line. Maybe I should have thrown a cough in his direction for good measure.
As much as I hate the idea of letting Larissa and J.P. complete the shift without me, I can’t do much more than fall onto my side. I don’t even have the energy to pick my feet up off the floor.
Energy or not, sick or not, it doesn’t stop my brain from continuing its torturous visions of Caleb. I’m fed snapshot after snapshot of his gorgeousness, right up to the moment everything goes black.
***
Warmth and safety... mixed with the smell of a forest?
Wrapped snugly in my bed, I feel like I’ve been dreaming for days. Or maybe it’s been years of this peaceful sleep. It feels so good. Put me under a glass case—I think I’d be happy this way forever.
“They said she wasn’t feeling well.” I hear his murmur from the living room. “She slept the entire way home... Yeah, okay. Fine.”
Caleb. Here, in my apartment. Talking about me. Worrying about me.
What the hell?
“Caleb,” I croak, calling him to me, since I’ve got no energy or will to get out of my bed.
“Hey,” he says, poking his head through the doorway. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired. Thirsty. Tired and thirsty.”
Time warps as I drift back asleep. Seconds, minutes, or maybe hours pass in a blink and then Caleb’s waking me with a hand on my blanketed shoulder.
“Water?” He holds out my sport bottle, filled with water and ice.
Oh, heaven. Ice.
The wonderful, luxurious warmth, suddenly feels like an inferno of uncomfortable swelter. My bed’s no longer cozy, it’s a sweat dungeon.
“Thanks,” I reply, grabbing for the drink as I toss aside the covers.
The minute the cool air of the room hits me I regret losing the blankets. Why is it, both times I’ve seen this man, I’ve been a complete disgusting mess? Right now, my work clothes are plastered to me—wet circles under my arms, under my boobs. Oh God... between my legs. Why does it have to feel like I pissed myself?
“I need a shower.” I try excusing myself, not bothering to ask what happened, why he’s here, or even what day it is.
“Let me help. I can get your shower started.”
“I’m fine,” I protest, rummaging through my dresser for a clean pair of yoga pants and a t-shirt large enough to hide in.
“You don’t seem fine. You were passed out at work. The redhead told me you were sick.”
“Larissa. She exaggerates, I’m just tired.” Leaning back against my dresser, I try to hide the sweat stains I’m wearing by crossing my arms over my chest. He’s not leaving, and my curiosity’s peaked—or maybe it’s my love of all things self-destructive spurring me on. “What are you doing here? How’d you get me home?”
“Same way I did last time.” His play
ful smile and quick wink do nothing to ease my anxiety. They also don’t hide the worried pinch of his brow. “I carried you in. No big deal, Zadie.”
“But, why you? I mean, how are you here right now?”
“Your co-workers called Chante because they couldn’t wake you up. You got me instead—Chante’s still at the hospital.”
“I’m sorry, but what the fuck is going on right now? Did you drive all the way from North Bay to pick me up from work? How long was I out?”
His laugh is light, completely unbothered by my rudeness. “I drove from North Bay three days ago. I’m staying at Chante’s place for a while.”
“You are?”
“Yeah, I moved in. I’m living with her until I can find a place of my own. I thought she would have told you.” His light expression fades a little.
“Oh, she probably did, I’ve been distracted.” She absolutely did not, but I don’t want to admit to the wall silently building between us.
Maybe Caleb was the big secret she’s been holding from me. But why?
“Well, I’ve been meaning to come see you anyway,” he says. His smile is so bold and enigmatic it erases all my worries about Chante—and everything else.
“How old are you?” I blurt. Fuck it. First impressions, and all other impressions, are already ruined. There’s no point trying for normal.
“Is that really where you want to start this discussion? And do you really want to start it now?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” Sinking back into the hard edge of my dresser, I immediately regret my lack of filter. “Everything’s already awkward as hell. I just figure, you already know I’m a lot heavier than I look, and that I drool when I sleep. We might as well get all the other uncomfortable stuff out of the way too.”
He laughs at me.
Even though my head hurts and I’d like to curl into a ball of leave me alone to die, I can’t help but be enchanted by him. He’s got such a natural way about him—relaxing and reassuring.
“Alright, I’ll play along,” he says, humor lingering in his tone, as he makes himself comfortable on the edge of my bed. “But let me ask you something first. Why does my age matter?”
“It doesn’t. I mean, it shouldn’t. But it does.” Fuck, I sound like an idiot.
“Zadie, I feel like I need to apologize to you. Can we talk about that first?” he asks, leaning forward, his arms braced on his knees, enhancing the strong line of his shoulders.
Apologize? “You don’t have anything to apologize for.”
“Really? Because I feel like I do. I know I freaked you out when we first met. At least, I assume I did, since you ran out of Chante’s place like it was on fire. I messed up, and I just wanted to tell you I was sorry for that.”
“I was there too.” I hesitate.
“Yeah,” he laughs. “I don’t think you should take credit for that. You were wrecked.”
“And you weren’t?”
“No, Zadie.” His smile disappears, sincerity etching a crease between his brows. “I wasn’t. And I want to assure you, absolutely nothing happened between us.”
The lingering heat evaporates, my body starting to shiver as it cools.
Why do I feel so let down? It’s like some stupid part of me was secretly hoping he’d proclaim it the best night of his life. That Chante was wrong and something did happen between us. Something magical.
“Falling asleep in the same bed as you,” he continues. “Well, that was an accident. I think everything that night was a bit of an accident, and I’m sorry I let it happen.”
Of course, he’s sorry. He’s hot—young and hot—and I’m a fool in post-break-up mode with an overactive, hormone-fueled imagination.
“It’s okay,” I reassure. “I won’t lie. I did freak out. But only because I couldn’t remember what happened. When I saw you there, I guess I just assumed...”
“It’s an understandable assumption.” He smiles gently. “Twenty-one.”
“Twenty-one?”
“Yeah, I’m twenty-one. Does that bother you?” His gentle smile turns mischievous.
“Why would that bother me? I don’t even know what we’re talking about.”
“Oh, I think you do. You met me three weeks ago, and it ended in a bit of a disaster, but you’re still curious about me. So, I think you’re thinking the same thing I am.”
“And what exactly is it that you’re thinking?” Despite my damp clothing. Despite my embarrassment. I really want him to say he’s thinking about us naked together, because I am.
He looks so delicious in his ripped jeans and plaid shirt, with the sexy smart man glasses he’s wearing... and damn, his voice—it strokes me with each word—first soft, and then hard, and then soft again. It’s unnerving. Torturous.
And it all makes for one simple equation.
Sex.
“I’m thinking we should go out. On a date,” he says, jarring me out of my sex-filled musings. “Preferably one without any alcohol. Or, at least, very limited quantities.”
I sputter, choking on my water. No fucking way. He can’t be serious. A date? Go figure, the first time I get asked out on a date, and it’s only days after I find out I’m knocked up by a man who never bothered.
“What? Why on earth would you want to do that? Look at me,” I demand. “I’m a wreck.”
His already brilliant smile glows as he breaks into boisterous laughter.
He’s laughing at me and I don’t know if I should be encouraged or insulted. It doesn’t matter; not when the look on his face is so pure, so fucking genuine.
His smile. His laugh.
They melt my insides, making me want to forget the absolute horror of this moment. Watching him, I try to keep the tears at bay. This man—this beautiful, young, vivacious man—has no clue what he’s trying to get himself into.
“Zadie, I’ve only ever seen you a wreck,” he says, his playful smile heating. “You’re not perfect, you’re real—the most gorgeous wreck I’ve ever seen—and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”
Why does he have to look so edible, and sound so damn sincere? I want to say yes. Dear lord, how I want to say yes.
But where would that leave us? I’ll still be pregnant with a douchebag’s baby. No matter how big the ball gown, or how shiny the glass slippers, my belly will still turn into a pumpkin at midnight. Or in about seven months, whatever.
“I can’t.” That’s all I manage to say, before disappointment closes my throat.
“Why not?”
Why not? I can’t help but laugh.
“Let me count the reasons,” I say, ticking them off my fingers. “You’re my best friend’s cousin. You know nothing about me, except that I’m a cheap drunk.”
He sits back, his fingers steepled at his mouth, looking unconcerned.
“And you’re eight years younger than me,” I emphasize, expecting him to look horrified or to run away. Probably screaming.
His expression doesn’t change. He just keeps looking at me with that sexy little smirk playing on his kissable fucking mouth.
“What? Not enough reasons for you?” I challenge.
“Oh no, that’s quite the list you’ve got there. I just don’t think your reasons are any good.”
“Are you kidding? I can’t tell if you’re serious or not.”
“Very serious,” he stresses. “So, let’s pretend things aren’t totally weird and awkward. Let’s pretend I did this right, and I asked you out properly. What would your answer be?”
Contemplating his words, I examine him. The way his eyebrows arch perfectly over his expressive eyes. The way his hair frames his face, emphasizing his jawline. It’s masculine, but not harsh, and looks like it would be smooth to the touch. I’d like to nip at that jaw, I bet he’d taste delicious.
“You know, when you leave a guy hanging like this, it can do terrible things to his ego.” He interrupts my daydream. Again.
“I’ve never been on a real date,” I admit.
> “Well then, it’s destiny! I’ve never been on a real date, either. We can be clueless together.”
My body shivers again, but it doesn’t feel like the chill of the air. “I’m sorry, I can’t,” I tell him, firmly. The quake of my muscles quickly dying.
“It’s not the age difference, is it? Because it’s really not an issue.”
“No, Caleb, it’s not your age.”
“Ah shit, do you have a new boyfriend? I’m sorry, I didn’t even think to ask.”
“No, I definitely do not have a new boyfriend.” I search for a way to explain, without giving away the truth. I’m not prepared to discuss this, especially not while I’m standing in a puddle of my own sweat.
“A regrettable tattoo?”
“What?” I laugh. Why does he have to be so damn cute? “No. I don’t have a boyfriend or a tattoo and your age doesn’t bother me. Not really. You’ve just caught me at a bad time, and I don’t really want to talk about it. Not right now.”
“You’re right,” he agrees. “I’m being impulsive and you’re not feeling well. I’m sorry, I should have given this more thought.”
“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”
Caleb tries to talk—to say what, I don’t know. I don’t want to know. I can’t stand hearing any more of the regret in his voice, but I certainly can’t entertain the idea of dating him.
“Please, don’t say any more,” I plead, interrupting him before he can speak. “Let’s stop with all the crap about awkward feelings and what we should have done differently. I can’t do anymore regrets—I’m already drowning in them. Can we agree to be friends, and just move forward?”
“Friends?”
“Yes. I don’t have many, and since you’re new in town, I figure you don’t have many here, either. Plus, I’d like drop by your apartment whenever I want. Like I normally would. I don’t want to worry about it being inconvenient or uncomfortable.”
“Okay. I guess I can agree to that.” He nods, his smile still in place, but looking a little less genuine than it did before. “But, if we’re doing no regrets, then you have to agree to a date. We’ll call it a friend date. A friendly date? Dates with friends. Whatever. You pick what you want to call it—just let me take you out.”
