Bitch (Chauvinist Stories Book 1)

by Elise Faber

  Silence. Fuck, I really hated quiet. At least that particular day.

  “You sure you didn’t do—”

  There was fumbling and a squawk and then Becca was on the line. “She went and talked to someone today. A therapist. She might be raw and need to be alone.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “The last thing she needs to be is alone. Her dad died and her mother took it out on her. She needs people who love her to be there for her. Which means she needs me.”

  “Cole—”

  “Don’t try to talk me out of it. If this is the first time she’s talking to someone about everything in her past then she needs me. Okay? Case closed, so give me the fucking address.”

  “Cole—”

  “No arguments.”

  “Cole!”

  “What?” I snapped.

  “I’m trying to tell you I’ll text you her information.”

  “Oh.” A beat. “Thanks.”

  “Tread carefully, Cole.”

  “Always.”

  I hung up the phone, feeling it buzz just as I locked my front door. Five minutes later I was in my truck and on my way to her place.

  Trouble was, she didn’t answer the door when I made it there.

  Fifteen

  Olivia

  He was knocking at my door.

  And I was hiding in my closet.

  “Becca,” I whispered into my cell phone. “He’s here.”

  “Go answer the door, you idiot,” she snapped, and I couldn’t exactly fault her for her tone. Before calling Becca and explaining the situation in broken, frantic statements, I’d spent the previous five minutes since he’d begun knocking flailing around like a panicked, irrational woman.

  And I despised irrational women.

  Maybe more than actually being one.

  Case in point, I was so off my game, I wasn’t even annoyed with myself when I said, “I can’t. I’m splotchy from crying and am wearing the sweatpants.”

  My sad, holey, frumpy, only-worn-during-my-period sweatpants. They were easily the most unflattering garment I owned.

  Becca sighed. “I’ve seen the horror of said sweatpants and can only advise that Cole will not give two shits about them. He’s worried about you. Go answer the door.”

  “I—”

  “Hang up and go.”

  I hung up and went.

  The lock had barely clicked open before Cole was pushing through, eyes blazing and lips pressed firmly together. “What the fuck, Olivia?”

  “Go away, Cole. I don’t need to deal with your shit.”

  “Maybe not,” he said, “But I’m going to be here for you to deal with anyway.”

  “I don’t need you!” I shrieked, part of me not even sure why I was yelling, the rest of me knowing that he might as well see me at my worst because then he’d realize I wasn’t good enough for him and he’d leave.

  It would hurt like hell, but at least I’d be okay.

  “Well, I need you.”

  I froze, blinking up at him. Then the old ice came back, protecting that vulnerable core that felt flayed open from the weekend, from rehashing my childhood with Dr. L. She’d advised me not to make any rash decisions about my life for a few days, that I would probably feel on edge.

  But fuck it.

  This was me. This barbed bitchy woman was all I’d ever be.

  Might as well bare it all before Cole, let him be fully aware of what he was inheriting.

  I scoffed, turned away. “Sure,” I said. “Keep telling yourself that. You just want an easy lay around, one who’ll give it up without protest and deep throat you on command.”

  “What the fuck, Olivia?” he said again, but this time it was more growl than worried and annoyed. He was pissed off and part of me was glad for that.

  Now he’d leave.

  But he didn’t.

  Instead, he grabbed me, yanked me against his chest, and banded his arms around me. I expected angry words in my ear, vitriol blasting my ear drums, but he just held me, one hand drifting gently up and down my back.

  And that was when the tears came.

  I sobbed into his chest. I sobbed as he picked me up and carried me to the couch. I sobbed as he gently kissed the tears away.

  I sobbed until there were no more tears.

  Then I lay quietly against his chest, wondering how in hell to explain how important this moment was to me. I’d pushed him away again. I’d been trying to don that armor.

  And he stayed. He’d kept that armor on its hooks and wouldn’t let me wear it.

  Scary. Also, wonderful.

  “I was a bitch,” I eventually rasped. “I’m sorry.”

  He brushed his thumb under each of my eyes in turn, wiping away the tears. “Weren’t you the one who said that was a good thing?”

  That startled a little chuckle out of me and then another when my stomach rumbled, and he pulled out his phone, asking, “DoorDash?”

  I nodded, eyes glued to my manicure, embarrassed that I’d become so unhinged and feeling extremely guilty I’d screamed at him. “I shouldn’t have yelled. I’m so—”

  He kissed me.

  “No apologies, okay?” he murmured. “This is a lot. Becca mentioned . . . well, she said you’d gone to talk to someone. That’s a good thing.”

  “I don’t think it can be good if it made me go so far off the rails.”

  “It’s good because you got it out.” He sighed then said softly, “For a long time, I thought my dad leaving was my fault, thought it would have been easier if my mom had just dropped me off in foster care and started over.”

  I shifted around, touched his cheek. “Cole. Your mom—”

  “I know,” he said. “She cornered me when I was a teenager, made me talk it out with her. It wasn’t an easy conversation—no, conversations, because she made sure to rehash it with me many times over until I understood she didn’t view raising me as a sacrifice.” He covered my hand with his, warm and strong and a little rough. But that was Cole. “I thought she was going to tan my hide for even thinking it,” he murmured. “But eventually I managed to stop blaming myself and recognize the gift she’d given me.”

  “Are you saying you’re a gift?”

  He smirked. “Absolutely.”

  I chuckled then sobered, touching his cheek again. “I’m not sure I’m ready to talk about it yet.”

  “I’ll be here when you are.” A beat as he held up his phone. “Now, should we order Chinese or Italian?”

  “Italian,” I said without hesitation. “Tears mean I need carbs.”

  “Roger that.” He began moving his finger across the screen, putting in exactly what I would have ordered myself. Somehow, that wasn’t a surprise.

  Cole knew me.

  He also knew when I was giving him shit.

  “Tan your hide? Your The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly is showing.”

  He pressed the button to send the order then tossed his phone on the coffee table and pinned me to the couch, wide grin on his face. “Promise you’ll never stop giving me shit.”

  “Now that’s a promise I can—”

  Cole cut me off with a kiss . . . and kept kissing me until the food showed up at my door.

  Sixteen

  Cole

  “I’ll only give these to you if you promise to forgive me for holding your shoes hostage.”

  It was a week from the day I’d stormed into Olivia’s apartment and we’d finally made it back to my place. I’d stayed until she’d fallen asleep that fateful night, wondering exactly what she’d talked to the therapist about and why it had destroyed her defenses so thoroughly.

  But I’d promised her patience.

  And so I waited.

  Meanwhile, I’d managed to sneak into her office with lunch twice and back over to her place one other time. The other two nights I’d been putting fires out at the ranch and meeting with management at the Gold about developing their youth program.

  Looked I’d be spending more time in the Ci
ty.

  I grinned. Olivia would have to get used to having me around.

  Now, it was the following Monday and I held up the box of Louboutin’s I’d had previously wrapped up for her like they were the greatest treat in the universe.

  I should face it, to Olivia they basically were.

  “Present!” she chirped, clapping her hands together. “Give it here!”

  I held the box aloft. “Not until you say the words and forgive me for all transgressions committed against your shoes.”

  She glanced up at him, eyes twinkling. “I’m not sure I can. I’m not exactly known as a forgiving woman.” Olivia took a step closer, breasts brushing his chest. “I’m—” She kissed my jaw, made a sneaky grab for the present.

  I snatched it back, holding out it of reach. “I’m taller,” I said as she jumped and tried to snag it out of my hand. “It’s not gonna work.”

  She stuck out her bottom lip, pouting, but one of her palms was sliding down his stomach, fingers tugging at the button on his jeans. “I know something that’ll work.”

  My lips twitched. “Trouble.” But I brushed her hand away and handed her the box anyway.

  The noise she made when I opened the box had my cock twitching.

  She tore open the paper and touched the label on the lid almost reverently. “You didn’t.”

  I shrugged. “Becca told me which ones you didn’t have. I hope she was right.”

  Not that Dev’s wife was often wrong, especially when it came to important things like her former boss’s shoes.

  “She was right. I don’t have these ones,” Olivia said, slipping off her own black pumps and swapping them for the black and red polka dot pair Becca had advised me to get. Personally, I’d wanted to get her the fire engine ones that matched the lipstick she always wore, but had been assured she already owned that exact pair.

  Now to bribe her into wearing them both for me . . . and nothing else.

  Good plan.

  “You like them?” I asked.

  In answer, she launched herself into my arms, slamming her mouth down onto mine. “I love y—them,” she said, when she’d pulled away. Her cheeks went pink at the words, eyes darting to her hands.

  But I didn’t call her on the slip. It was enough that she might possibly be thinking the words, and having the feelings in the first place.

  “Try ‘em on?” I asked, waggling my brows.

  Her eyes found mine again, and she lightly smacked my chest. “You just want to play fashion show.”

  “That’s a thing?”

  Her smile turned wicked as she reached for the top button of her blouse. “It’s definitely a thing and this present might have earned you a semi-naked fashion show.”

  “Only semi?” I stuck out my bottom lip.

  “Don’t press your luck.” Rising on tiptoe, she nipped at my jaw. “Hell, who am I kidding? It’ll most certainly be mostly naked.”

  I laughed. “I’ll try and tempt you into totally naked.”

  A few buttons came undone. “I think that can be accomplished.”

  Turned out she was right.

  And the next night, I was able to accomplish something else—fashion show number two meant seeing those sexy red heels on her feet . . . and nothing else.

  Yeah, my woman was the shit.

  Seventeen

  Olivia

  I was cooking dinner for the man I was dating.

  That in of itself was a novelty.

  Or maybe a comedy, since I regularly burned water. No seriously, I burned water on a regular basis.

  The kitchen in my apartment was lovely, with marble countertops and built-in appliances, but it was also virtually unused because I’d had to hire a special cleaning company to come in and work their magic after the last time I’d partaken in cooking activities.

  That had been to boil some water because I’d been craving old school Kraft macaroni and cheese.

  It had also been the reason I’d met Steph and her kiddo, Sam, so I couldn’t be too disappointed in myself. Her and her crew had come in to deep clean my place and they’d done such a good job, I’d conned her into working for Prestige.

  Burning water sometimes brought good things.

  Life has a way of working out, Dr. L had said that day during our appointment and she was right. I’d been telling her how I’d scored the internship, after having randomly met the former owner of Prestige Media Group while working my way through junior college as a barista. He’d appreciated my attention to detail, how I’d remembered the regular clients’ names and orders.

  And he’d offered me a job.

  Since it had paid about three times my salary at the coffee shop and didn’t require me to wake up at four in the morning, it had been a no brainer.

  Turned out I was good at getting coffee for the staff and players at Prestige, and even better at remembering obscure details about contracts.

  Because of a coffee . . . or rather, because of many good coffees over the course of several months, my life had changed. But still, I’d stumbled onto an opportunity, hadn’t balked, and instead seized it. Then I’d proved myself and worked hard.

  Dr. L said that I could do the same with Cole.

  Hence the cooking and trying to win his heart via his stomach.

  Wasn’t that what girlfriends did?

  I bit my lip, hoping that I could be girlfriend material and also hoping that mac and cheese went a little better the second round. This time I was guarding the boiling pot, not daring to leave it and risk getting distracted by emails again, definitely not wanting to have to buy a new saucepan because I’d reduced it to a melted puddle on the stovetop.

  I’d also had to buy a new stove.

  Cute.

  Snorting, I opened the blue box and poured in the contents just as the water began boiling. Good job me.

  Of course, dumping the entire contents also meant that I dunked the packet of fake cheese in the boiling water as well.

  “Oh boy, Rogers,” I muttered, fishing it out. “Get it together.” I flipped over the box to reread the cooking instructions. A girl couldn’t be too careful when it came to making mac and—

  My heart sank as I realized what was printed there.

  I needed butter and milk? I’d thought it was one or the other.

  “Shit,” I muttered, opening my fridge, and pretending that milk might have mysteriously appeared in the twenty minutes since I’d been home. It hadn’t, and the couple of minutes I spent searching for it proved to be my downfall.

  I sniffed.

  “Shit.”

  I slammed the fridge door closed and sprinted to the stove. The pot was boiling over. I turned down the heat, but the damage had been done.

  I had a burnt brick of pasta in the pan.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  “Oh for fuck’s sake.” I shoved the pot off the heat and answered the door. Cole was there, a bouquet of flowers in his hand. But it wasn’t the collection of sunflowers there that made my heart skip.

  Nope. It was the bag from Molly’s in the other one.

  He gave me a sheepish smile. “Just in case.”

  “Cole.” I rose on tiptoe and kissed him.

  His lips parted, tongue sweeping into my mouth and making heat spiral from the inside out, and he nudged me back into apartment, closing the door behind us. Then he dropped the flowers and food on the table I had there, pulled me close, and reminded me how much I loved his mouth.

  Loved him.

  Eventually, we had to break apart for oxygen—damn fallible human bodies—and I stepped back out of his arms. “I need to finish cooking dinner.”

  One brow lifted. “Is that what I’m smelling?” he asked cautiously.

  “It’s delicious,” I said, pretending to not notice the rather unpleasant scent from the kitchen mixing with the yumminess from the bag of goodies he’d brought. “I hope you brought your hungry pants—”

  He snagged me by the waist, tugged my back to his chest, and nip
ped my ear. “I brought you brownies.” Another nip. “And soup.”

  I shivered. “I made—”

  His hand cupped my breast. “Did I mention brownies?”

  “I really think we should eat what I made—”

  “I’ll eat you later if you throw that repulsive-smelling meal in the trash where it belongs.”

  “Cole!”

  “Come on, honey,” he coaxed, nibbling along my jaw.

  And because I was fucking with him—the bag from Molly’s would have convinced me to throw away anything I was cooking, even if it hadn’t already been a disaster—I nodded. “Okay, you’ve finally convinced me.”

  “Liar,” he said, laughing. “But now I win both ways.”

  I spun in his arms, staring up at the only man who’d ever managed to get the best of me, the only one who’d ever been able to weasel his way into my heart, and my lips parted.

  This was when I should express what I was feeling.

  This was my chance to grasp on and—

  My stomach knotted.

  I couldn’t do it.

  Not yet. Not—

  Cole put me out of my misery by kissing my forehead. “I’ll get the pot, you get the food. Meet you at the table.”

  “I—”

  He nudged me forward. “Do you want wine?”

  I forced out a laugh, touched by his understanding and really fucking disappointed in myself that I couldn’t push beyond this fear. “I’ll never turn down wine. The opener is in the—”

  “I’ve got it. As long as you promise to save me at least one brownie.”

  “That’s a promise I can’t keep, McTavish.”

  He laughed. “I’ll hurry then.”

  “Good luck,” I called teasingly, grabbing the bag and jogging to the table. The plastic crinkled as I rifled through the contents.

  Cole made it to the table in record time, two glasses of red wine in his hands, warmth in his expression.

  Because I’d saved him two brownies.

  Progress, see?

  “I’m so freaking pathetic,” I said. “I can think I love him, can feel it in my heart. Hell, I can tell you the damn words and yet I can’t tell him.”