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Stephanie calling.
Decline.
Maybe I should change my number to a San Diego one and only give it to my mother.
Two minutes later, she makes my voicemail ding.
I glance at the screen and see I missed a call from Caitlin, too. Seven voicemail messages now wait for me.
I hear a sound that I’m pretty sure is the apartment door closing. Maybe he’s gone out. Good.
I head across the hall with a change of clothes and my train case. I peel my clothes off and pour lots of my orange blossom bath foam in. I get into the awesome soaker tub and soak. And soak. When I’m done, I dry off, lotion up, re-tie my hair into a bun, and get into a grey sweatshirt dress with big pockets that I love to wear when I’m doing nothing. I bring my work clothes and toiletries back to my room. I’m not leaving anything out since it’s not technically just my bathroom.
Since I’m pretty sure he’s not here, I head to the kitchen to find something cold to drink.
As soon as I step over the threshold of the hallway into the great room, I get a whiff of food cooking. He looks over his naked shoulder at me from the stove and his eyes heat up.
Oh shit. He’s in just a pair of sweatpants.
Shit. SHIT. I’m not wearing armor. No make-up, not even any shoes on my feet. I’m in casual around-the-house sweats that show off my naked legs. In fact, as much as it’s a sweatshirt dress, it’s a little bit sexy. It only comes to mid-thigh and it has slits on the side and enough cleavage to draw attention.
Well, might as well approach. To avoid him after he saw me would show some weakness, I guess.
“I thought you went out,” I mumble.
“I just went down to the gym.” He’s got eyes on me. On my legs.
“There’s a gym in the building?” I ask.
His eyes move back up. “Level P1.”
“Can I use it?” I ask.
“Yep,” he replies, eyes on my legs.
I get to the counter and we are a matching pair. He’s in grey sweatpants and bare-chested, barefoot. Wet hair. By his scent I can tell he’s showered and bathed himself in tha sexual chocolate man soap.
SHIT. Grey sweatpants. Don’t look for the dick print, Carly. Don’t look!
I look. Oh shit. It’s there. It’s definitely there.
My eyes zoom to the stove. Vegetables in a pan. Another pan simmering with chicken. And a giant pot of bubbling water.
Wait. My addled-by-dick-print brain plays catch-up.
This is my food. My food. Again.
I had the makings of a stir fry in the fridge, all prepped. He’s cooking my vegetables. He’s cooked my chicken. He’s got the package of noodles and all the sauces on lined up on the countertop!
Before I blow my top, I yank open the fridge to confirm my stuff isn’t still sitting on the bottom shelf. Yep, nothing other than a carton of milk, some eggs, a bottle of wine, and some fruit.
He hasn’t gone shopping. He hasn’t miraculously purchased identical ingredients to what I’d had in there, what I’d planned to make for dinner tonight with leftovers enough to either feed me dinner tomorrow or feed me lunch at work for the following two days. I’m on a drumskin-tight budget until payday a week and a half away and I can’t afford to keep feeding this guy.
“What are you doing?” I demand.
“Making dinner for us.”
“For…” I fail to get anything else out.
