Make Me Sin (27 page)

T
he smell of coffee wakes me. When I open my eyes, A.J. is kneeling on the mattress beside me, holding a freshly brewed cup. He’s shirtless and smiling, two of my favorite things.

Smiling in return, I rub my fist into my eye and sit up. “What time is it?”

“Eight a.m., baby, Monday morning. Time for you to go back to work.”

Oh my God, it’s Monday
. I freeze. My mind goes blank. My pulse begins to pound so loudly in my ears I have to concentrate on what I say next. “That’s right. Our . . . our week is up.”

Looking completely unfazed, A.J. hands me the coffee. “Technically, our week was up a few days ago.”

I’ve overstayed my welcome
. I look down at the mug in my hands. My face is so hot my ears are scalding.

“You hungry? There’s cereal.”

The thought of food turns my stomach. “No, thank you.” I can barely form the words.
I’m leaving. This is it. It’s over.
“I . . . I’ll just get ready then . . . take a shower . . .”

“Okay.” He says it with so much cheer I’m gripped by a violent urge to slap his face.

I’m leaving today. Our time is over. And A.J. doesn’t give one single fuck.

He rises from the bed and goes into the bathroom, his step light, his posture untroubled. I hear the water go on; he’s started the shower for me. He’s so eager to get me out, he can’t even wait long enough for my shower to get hot!

I shake with humiliation, pain, and a deep, aching sense of betrayal. Worst of all is the knowledge that I’ve done this to
myself
. He was completely up front with me; he told me we’d have a week, and now that week, plus a few extra days, is over. I knew this was coming all along.

What did I expect, a marriage proposal?

Blinking back tears, I take a swallow of the coffee. It’s strong and black, just how I like it.

Son of a bitch.

I finish the coffee, take my shower, dress and blow-dry my hair, all while fighting tears and failing miserably to try to convince myself this isn’t the end of the world.

Only it really feels like it is.

When I emerge from the bathroom, A.J. is in the kitchenette, washing my coffee cup in the sink. He rinses it, dries it, and puts it away in the cupboard. Watching that drives a stake through my bleeding, shredded heart. In his mind, I’m already gone.

Ignoring the tears that are now sliding down my cheeks, I cross to the sofa and reach for my suitcase, which is propped up beside it, but then I freeze with my hand on the handle when A.J. calls out, “So what do you think for dinner tonight? Are you sick of my pancakes? Because I was thinking of getting fancy and trying to make an omelet.”

It takes what feels like four hours for me to straighten and turn to look at him. “Dinner?”

He’s still at the sink, tidying up, with his back to me. His hair is loose around his shoulders. He’s wearing ancient, holey jeans and nothing else. The sight of his strong, bare feet against the floor makes me want to weep, they’re so beautiful.

“Yeah. You should be home around what, six? Seven?”

I can’t think. My mouth refuses to form words.

He turns to look at me. When he sees my face, he blinks in shock. “Angel! What’s wrong?”

And I totally lose it. I go completely, utterly nuts.

I shout, “Are you kidding me? Are you just screwing with me right now? First you’re throwing me out and then you want to know what I want for dinner?”

A.J. looks left, then right, like he’s wondering who this crazy person is and if there’s anyone else nearby who can help him handle her. “Who said I was throwing you out?”

My hands are balled to fists. I can feel how red my face is. My chest heaves up and down, and all I can do is stare at him, shaking. Through gritted teeth, I say, “Our
week
is
up
.”

Understanding dawns over his face. “Oh angel. Jesus.”

He drops the dish towel he’s holding and strides over to me. In several long, swift strides, he’s in front of me. He gathers me into his arms and hugs me, hard. “You’re not going anywhere without me, except work. And even
there
I’ll be lurking in corners, watching, making sure nothing happens to you.”

In a move I thought only happened in romance novels, my knees go weak. Now I shake even harder, clinging to his waist so I don’t slide bonelessly to the floor. “W-what happened to one week? What happened to our deal?”

He takes my face in his hands. “What happened is that I told you all the worst shit I’ve ever done, and you told me you belonged to me. You told me you loved me.
Love
,” he corrects himself, “present tense. I’m not letting you go, Chloe. You belong to me, and I won’t spend another day without you. I can’t live without you, don’t you see? Without you I might as well be dead.”

I burst into sobs and start to ugly cry so hard A.J. laughs.

“It’s not funny, you jerk!”

He kisses me all over my wet, red face, holding me tight, murmuring how much he loves me, how much he needs me, how he’ll never, ever let me go.

Mondays are officially my new favorite day of the week.

T
hat day at work goes by in a dream. I’m surprised how well Trina and the staff handled everything in my absence; no fires had to be put out, no major mistakes were made. I make an appointment to have the stitches removed from my cheek, and another with the plastic surgeon my father recommended to see what can be done about any residual scarring.

I’m so happy I almost don’t care about the scarring. I’m so happy I feel like the sun is shining out of the top of my head.

Grace, however, is
not
happy.

“So you spent about a week and a half playing house with the drummer, and now you’re back at work avoiding all my questions like it’s your mother you’re talking to, and not your very best friend. Well, your
other
very best friend. Not acceptable, Chloe!”

Even her scathing tone can’t put a damper on my glorious mood. I sigh and sit back in my office chair, propping my feet on my desk. “I missed you.”

“Lie,”
she shoots back without hesitation. “Who do you think is on the other end of the line, babe? I know you like I know the back of my hand. Other than those thirty-second check-in phone calls, you didn’t think about me once.”

I smile because she’s right. “Well, now I miss you. When can we get together? How’s Kat?”

She snorts. “Other than being worried sick about you and driving me crazy about the wedding, she’s her usual foul-mouthed, wonderful self. She and Nico are planning a party at their house next Monday for Memorial Day; I assume you and the Russian spy are coming?”

I see the dangling fishhook a mile away, and avoid it. All of A.J.’s secrets are safe with me, and always will be. “I don’t know. I haven’t even talked to Kat yet. Maybe?”

“No maybes. You’re coming.” Her firm, no-refusals tone softens. “How are you doing, really? Have you heard anything about dickface Eric?”

At the mention of his name, my stomach tightens. Feeling vulnerable, I lower my feet and sit up straight at the desk, hugging my free arm around my waist. “We got the restraining order, so that’s good. And apparently Eric’s out of the hospital, though he’s not back to work; he’s been suspended without pay.”

Grace mutters a few choice epithets about Eric’s manhood. “They should have fired that worthless prick on the spot.”

“They have to do an internal investigation first, though it looks like it’s just a formality. I think he’ll be fired soon. I guess there were quite a few skeletons in his closet his bosses could no longer overlook.”

“Well, good riddance. Honestly if I ever see his face again, I think I’ll break it.”

I love her for refraining from saying “I told you so.”

“So do you want me to spend the night with you for the next few days, until you get settled back in? Or you’re always welcome to crash at my place if you don’t feel comfortable at your apartment since Mr. Law and Order left you with such nice memories there.”

“No, I’m good. I’m staying with A.J. for the foreseeable future.”

The silence on the other end of the line is deafening.

“I love him, Gracie,” I say, much softer. “Wherever he is, that’s where I need to be.”

I wonder if Grace has bought a cat, because from the other end of the phone issues a sound like a cat trying to cough up a stubborn hairball.

“Okay,
best friend
, I’m ending the call now.”

“Wait!”

Her panicked shout makes me pause. I can’t remember the last time I heard Grace panicked. “What?”

“I just have one more question for you.”

“Which is?”

It’s her turn to pause. “Are you sure?”

There’s not even a second of hesitation when I answer. “Yes. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

I hear a deep, resigned sigh. “How the hell did I, badass bitch that I am, get stuck with two such
ridiculously
romantic girlfriends?”

I have to smile; that sigh means she’s got my back, even if she thinks I’m insane. She’ll never again say another negative or unsupportive word about my relationship with A.J.

“Are we in rhetorical question territory here? Or are you seriously expecting an answer to that?”

“Rhetorical, rhetorical,” she mutters. “And now
I’m
ending the call so I can pour myself a large glass of water.”

“Water? That’s not like you.”

“Of course I like water. Especially when it’s frozen into little cubes and completely surrounded by vodka. Good-bye.”

She hangs up on me, leaving me grinning at the phone.

I love my friends.

O
ver the next week, A.J. and I settle in to a routine. I go to work; he drives by on his motorcycle at least four times during the day to check on me. I come home after work; he cooks dinner. (He graduates from pancakes to omelets to French toast. The man has a serious addiction to eating breakfast foods for supper.) I clean up; he plays the piano or does some amazing drum solo on the practice kit he keeps in what used to be the lobby bar, whaling on it until his fingers bleed like that kid in
Whiplash
. Or he reads to me. Or we watch a movie. Or, or, or one of a thousand different things.

Showers and baths are taken together.

Everything, in fact, we do together, right down to folding laundry.

I had no idea living with another person could be so much
fun
.

“I never thought I’d meet a woman who has worse-looking hands than I do,” he teases one afternoon after I yelp in pain when the juice of a lime I’ve cut to use in guacamole seeps into a deep cut on my finger. We’re in the main kitchen downstairs, making lunch. The surface of the stainless steel table I’m standing at is covered in various dents and gouges, but is otherwise a perfectly competent prep area. I like having so much space to spread out; the kitchen in my apartment is miniscule compared to this. And A.J.’s kitchenette in his room is even smaller than that.

I flick a piece of avocado from my fingers at A.J. It lands on his cheek. “Gee, sweet talker, keep ’em coming. Those compliments of yours really get me hot and bothered.”