“You didn’t have this problem before?” She caught the main thing I didn’t want her to notice.
I feel my face harden—the question bringing too many bad memories. “No.” I answer, voice stern.
“I’m sorry to ask.” Her face is full of regret.
I disregard her words because there is nothing I can say. Instead, I again ask the question that’s been bothering me hella more than it should be. “Why would you think this is a one-nighter?"
“What else can it be?” She stares at me with wide eyes.
“I don’t know. Maybe something.” I honestly don’t know, but to my utter surprise, I’m not opposed to the idea. I don’t have a clue what’s happening with me and why I’m having breakfast and a normal conversation with a woman I just slept with. Slept! Fucking slept after the most mind-blowing sex I ever had.
“No, one-night stand. That was it.” She says firmly, finishing her coffee and standing up with a half-eaten plate.
“Why?” Her words sound so final that I stop eating.
She smacks the table with her palm. “I can’t believe you even need to ask. Do you really think I can just erase all those years of bullying from my memory?”
I feel a knot tightening in my stomach, a completely foreign feeling I don't like. "We are so good together. Why not?"
Apparently, it was the wrong thing to say because she turns around, fury shooting from her eyes. “Just because we fucked doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you. And by the way, you haven’t even apologized. And a few weeks ago, you told me you still hate me. Forgot about that one? So no, Justin, forget this ever happened.” She rushes to the sink and begins furiously washing dishes.
I stand up and go toward her. Plastering my front to her back, I plant my hands on either side of her, caging her in. I hear a loud intake of air and her hands hesitate before they stop moving. I bury my nose in her hair and breathe her in. The smell of strawberries, so familiar now, tickles my senses.
I press my chest into her back and feel her push back. Just a little, barely noticeable, but she did. So I take it as a yes and snake my arms around her waist, pressing my mouth to her ear. "I am sorry, Kayla," I stress, attempting to convey the full weight into my words, hoping she will understand. That she will know how incredibly sorry I am. "I'm so fucking sorry."
Her next breath shudders. “Why are you here, Justin?”
I don’t give her an answer because I don’t have one.
"Why were you here yesterday? Why were you waiting for me?" She sounds desperate like she needs to hear what I have to say, so I decide to go with the truth. At least for one of her questions.
“Because I didn’t want you to go with him.”
“Why, Justin? Is this some sort of a game where you can’t let another guy have a chick you haven’t fucked yet? Is that it?” She presses.
“No.”
“Then what is it?" Her voice rises, and she drops the cup into the sink, shattering it. “Tell me why!" She yells, and I pull her closer to me.
“Because you are mine!” My voice matches hers. "Mine," I say quieter as I let go of her. I look for my discarded shirt on the floor, but it's neatly folded on the couch. "Do you need to go somewhere today?"
“What?” She’s clearly confused by my switching subjects so fast.
“Do you need your car today or not?” I rephrase the question.
“I-I—” She stutters, “I have to run a few errands today.”
"Okay. I'll pick you up later, text me the time. Where are your keys?" She silently points at the hook by the door. I grab the keychain, take off the car key, and put the rest back. All the while, she doesn't utter a word. Then I walk to her, grab her head in my hands and plant an open-mouthed kiss on her lips. She gasps, and I dive in, tasting sweet coffee, blueberries, and her. She doesn't respond, but I didn’t expect her to. I think I just managed to mute Kayla Adams.
Pulling away from the kiss, I plant one last kiss on her lips before I turn on my heel and walk out the door of her inviting home.
ChapterTwenty-Five
KAYLA
What just happened? I’m confused. Justin Attleborough just kissed me, took my car keys, and left. Am I still alive? What’s happening? I pinch my thigh and yelp. “Fuck!” That hurts. But it means I’m alive. Okay. But in what universe is Justin this sweet with me?
And let's scroll back for a second. Did he really call me "his?" It’s not like the idea of that disgusts me, not at all, in fact. It’s been my dream since I was a teenager. But some dreams are just meant to be dreams: when they turn into reality, they eat you alive, devouring all senses until that dream is all you have left. I’m not ready for that. I have things to do; I'm not ready to drown in another person, even if this person is Justin. We've always been toxic as enemies. We will be toxic as lovers. Plus, I don't believe that Justin can change. He is a manwhore, and I don’t want to sign up to constantly fend off his admirers. I have too many insecurities of my own to add this one to the pile.
