Chasing Wishes (29 page)

"I would never even dream of shooting the messenger," he tells me, his voice low, sleepy, and deceptively seductive. "Not when there are so many other things I’d rather do with her instead."

He suddenly rolls on top of me and steals my breath away with a kiss so aggressive, so full of animal desire that a repeat of last night’s romp suddenly seems much more appealing than being a responsible grown-up and getting out of bed. He grabs my hands, entwining his fingers in mine as he pins me down against bed, and just as I’m about to give in to him, the alarm clock comes to my rescue.

"The time is: seven... forty-five... AM."

Terrence groans in disappointment and releases me from his thrall, and I hurriedly wriggle out from beneath him before I get myself into even more delightful trouble.

"Marcus is supposed to be back today," I tell him as he begrudgingly climbs out of bed, bracing himself against the tall bedpost. "I need to get you down to the lab before he comes up and finds us."

Terrence laughs and shakes his head. Now there’s a sound I could listen to forever.

"Oh no," he jokes. "We wouldn’t want him to know we’re normal humans, would we?"

I catch the faintest hint of something else hiding behind his joke... bitterness, maybe? He hasn’t adjusted well to being blind. He must hate feeling that he’s bound to the whims of everyone around him, reliant on them babying him to get through the day. I make a mental note to avoid doing it, though I’m not exactly certain how.

Terrence heads toward the bathroom, counting the steps under his breath, and I quickly decide that it should be illegal for him to wear clothes. The well-sculpted muscles of his back flex with each step, and I feel my face flush at the sight of the faint, pink nail marks just below his shoulders—a reminder of last night’s pleasures. My eyes trace their way down his back and shamelessly latch onto the smooth curves of his tight ass, obscured only barely by his skin-tight, gray boxer briefs. Why did I make him get out of bed, again? I must be insane.

Terrence closes the bathroom door, and a moment later, the shower turns on. I’m tempted to join him and inevitably waste what little remains of the morning, but I resist the urge. Instead, I cast off the blissfully warm sheets, brave the chilly morning air, and go on a scavenger hunt for my clothes. My underwear hangs draped over the dresser mirror, and I flush in embarrassment and quickly retie the bows as I dress myself. My little black dress is badly wrinkled after last night's romp, but it's good enough to get me back to my room. One of my stockings is nowhere to be found no matter how thoroughly I search, though, and I can already hear the gossip from the maids after their next weekly cleaning.

Terrence is still in the shower once I've finally given up on the elusive garment, so I distract myself by tidying up a bit. His brown leather shoes lie tossed on the floor beside the dresser, so I grab them and place them next to the door instead. I make the bed, fluff up the pillows and then frown disapprovingly at the thick layer of dust coating the nightstand. I'll have to have a word w haace ith his maids for not cleaning up better in here.

...did I seriously just think that? What the hell's wrong with me? I grab one of Terrence's socks from last night's pile of clothing and wipe away the dust. I've never had a maid a day in my life and I damned well don't need one for a nightstand. I should be ashamed of myself for even considering it.

Terrence finally emerges from the steamy bathroom wrapped in a white towel that's just a hair too small for him, and it's all I can do not to start drooling.

"Enjoy your shower?"

"Yep—nice and hot. If it doesn’t hurt just a little, it’s not hot enough," he answers with a grin. There's something amazingly sexy about his response and I'm glad he can't see me blushing right now. I have no idea what's gotten into me lately—well, apart from him.

"Did you sleep well?" he asks as he slowly makes his way to the dresser.

"Wonderfully once you finally let me go to sleep," I tease.

"Oh, so it's all my fault now?" He sticks his tongue out at me, and I hop down from the bed and wrap my arms around his waist from behind.

"Not
entirely
your fault," I whisper in his ear. He tenses up at the feeling of my breath against his skin, and I get the impression that sheer willpower is all that's holding him back from throwing me down on the bed and having me for himself again.

The leftmost drawer is filled with neatly pressed shirts, all arranged in rows from light colors to dark. Pants fill the center drawer in the same manner, and finally, socks and underwear on the right. I shouldn't be as surprised as I am at how organized the maids keep everything for him—how else could he find anything to wear? My dresser is a mishmash of blouses and slacks, jeans and sweatshirts all thrown into whatever drawer had room at the time. I'm lucky if they're even folded.

Terrence pulls out a midnight blue button-down shirt, black slacks and a shiny black leather belt, and then I turn away as he dresses. Why I feel that he needs privacy now when I was totally okay with ogling him all the way to the shower is beyond me. Getting dressed is different from undressing, somehow, and staring at his bare, muscular body is only acceptable if I'm planning to fuck him silly afterward. No idea where I got that rule from, but it seems like a good fit after this weekend's pleasures.

"Oh for Christ's sake," he mutters behind me, and when I turn around, he's on his hands and knees by the dresser as if searching for something.

"What's wrong?" I ask, hurrying to his side.

"My shoes," he snaps in exasperation. "I always leave them right here and..."

"I saw them lying there and put them by the door," I tell him, and he se stands up and shoots me a look of irritation as I fetch his shoes.

"Sorry," I whisper meekly. I had no idea it was part of his organizational scheme—I just thought he was messy.

"No worries," he tells me with a soft smile. "You didn't know."

He plants a kiss on my cheek as if to say all's forgiven, and I take my precious time admiring how good he looks before finally looping my arm through his and starting for the door.

We walk silently step by step down the long hallway, down stair after stair on the way to his laboratory. I rack my brain for anything to say, but even though my mind swirls with question wilentls, I can't break the silence. He stares straight ahead as if trying to pretend he doesn't know me, and the sudden chill leaves a sharp pain in my heart. Was this weekend all a mistake? Was it all just a one-night stand we're both going to have to forget?

God, I hope not.

Marcus is waiting for us at the lab entrance, the dark wood of the imposing double doors gleaming in the morning sunlight, and he uncrosses his arms and waves to me with a gentle smile as I approach.

"Good morning, Marcus!"

"Morning to you as well, dear. I hope Terrence didn't get you into too much trouble while I was away."

"None whatsoever. It was a nice, quiet weekend," I lie through my teeth. Terrence winks at me and I feel the butterflies in my stomach finish off their morning coffee and start fluttering.

"Oh... well, I'm glad to hear that," says Marcus, raising an eyebrow at me. He doesn't believe me, does he?

"Okay, Terrence," I say, breaking away from Marcus's inquiring eyebrow before I start blabbing. "There's sciencing to be done and inventions to be invented. Off with you!"

Terrence laughs, and it almost feels awkward as he unhooks his arm from mine, as if my arm doesn't know what to do with itself now that it's not holding him close.

"Let’s go, old man. You heard the lady," says Terrence, and Marcus guides him across the threshold and into the glass hallway of their labs. Just before the door swings shut, Marcus smiles back at me over his shoulder, and it's the happiest I've ever seen him look.

The door swings shut, its creaking hinges echoing through the empty house, and I miss Terrence already. I miss the laughing with him at the bar and holding him close all the way to the diner. God, where do I even start on all the things I miss about him in the bedroom?

This is ridiculous! One weekend—one fucking amazing weekend—and suddenly I need him with me all the time? Grow up, Irene.

I've been with Terrence for barely two weeks now and I'm already head over heels about him. What happens now? I still don't know where we stand, whether he employs me now because he needs my assistance or because he needs me in bed, and I can't let it stay like this. I can't let myself turn into my mother.

Relax,
I tell myself.
He's not paying you for sex. He wouldn't do that.

Or would he? I barely know him; who am I to say what he would or wouldn't do?

I shake my head at the thought. No—I don't believe that he's like that. I'm almost
certain
of it...

...but 'almost' isn't enough, not for something like this.

****

T
he morning passes in a blur of dog walking, audio recording and lunch making. My heart leaps into my throat every time Terrence texts me out of hope that maybe he wants to talk to me about... well, whatever it is that we are now, but it’s always about business.

My phone beeps again as I sit down to edit another audio book recording, this time a submission for an agency in Los Angeles. It’s Terrence again, and he wants to borrow my microphone so he can use voice recognition software for writing his own e-mails. I suppose Marcus must’ve told him about my little recording studio set-up.

I – No problem. It kind of sucks, but all yours if you want.

No kidding it sucks,
I think as I stare at the recording waveform on my screen. When I started editing this one, I intended to remove any stray vocal pops or hisses that my filter failed to prevent, but instead I’m cringing at the sound of my voice and wishing I’d never made the recording in the first place. I sound nasal and squeaky, like a mouse with a bad head cold, and it’s just awful.

It’s not my voice, though—it's my microphone. My microphone’s a piece of crap, but it’s all I could afford back during college. I’ve been putting off buying a new one for years, but now that I have a decent job, I don’t have much of an excuse anymore. The nearest decent music store is in New Haven, about an hour drive away. Maybe Cassie can drive me out there—I make a mental note to call her after I get back from the library. I’ve missed two straight reading days and Susan must be worried sick by now.

I quickly throw on an old pair of comfortable, loose-fitting jeans and my green cowl-necked sweater before heading downstairs. Just as I’m heading for the front door, Charlotte comes out of the dining room and marches straight for the laboratory. Her heels click loudly on the hardwood floors, and she’s smirking as if she’s feeling especially proud of herself today. Her law firm must have found someone new to sue this week.

"Going out for a bit?" she asks, glancing in my direction with a wide smile. Her tone is so sugary-sweet that it drives me crazy. Why the hell is she in such a good mood today?

"Just heading to the library. I’ll be back in a bit," I answer, eyeing her warily and keeping my distance. I’m not used to her acting so friendly toward me, and it’s putting me on edge.

"Oh, how lovely! It never occurred to me that you could read," she gushes with fake enthusiasm. Now
there’s
the Charlotte I’m used to.

The doors slam shut before I can think of a fitting retort. God, I hate her.

****

"A
nd then, just as the Big Bad Wolf was about to gobble Little Red Riding Hood up..."

I pause dramatically as the children stare wide-eyed, waiting for me to continue the story. There are seven today, all between four and seven years old—not a bad turnout for a weekday.

"...when suddenly the brave woodsman kicked down the door, scaring the wolf so badly that Little Red’s grandma popped straight out of his mouth and went rolling across the carpet!"

A little girl sitting to my right lets out an adorable giggle, and I wink at her before continuing. The author of this particular version of ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ has certainly taken a few liberties with sanitizing the plot, but the children seem to like it well enough. The story ends with its usual happily-ever-after, and then as the children scatter, I return the book to Susan at the counter.

Susan startles as I toss the book down on the counter and then gives me a quick, forced smile before looking away again. I stand there, leaning over the counter and waiting for her to say anything, but it’s clear to me that she’s trying not to talk to me.

"So... anything going on that you want to talk about?" I ask her, and she shakes her head so vehemently that the answer is clearly yes.