Page 19 of One Last Thing Before You Go

“My bed, now. And don’t worry. I changed the sheets.” Knox smiles behind his mug before taking a sip. He closes his eyes and hums, the sound of it taking me back to that night.

I shake my head, not letting myself be dragged down to another daydream. “But… why?”

“Why did I change them? Because I didn’t want to sleep in my dead father’s sheets.”

“No—” I sigh, exasperated. “I mean, why did you spend the night there. What’s wrong with your hotel?”

“Did I not just say why? Money? Lumpy mattress? You remember the mattress, don’t you, Pretty Girl?” He smirks, his eyes bright. “Shit, is that why you ran off and didn’t spend the night? The mattress was too lumpy?”

I roll my eyes, a deep blush spreading across my cheeks and neck, and pick up the cash to set it into a neat pile next to the ten dollar bills. “Okay, I’m done with this conversation now. I’m gonna go back to balancing the store safe, thank you very much,” I say curtly.

He takes another sip and walks around to the other side of the desk, pulling the chair out and taking a seat across from me.

I stop counting the twenties for the second time, and sigh. “What are you doing?”

He grins his boyish grin, and I wonder if this guy is ever not happy. “Just sipping my coffee. That a problem?”

I continue to count, ignoring the way he watches my every move— ignoring the way he makes my skin tingle as his eyes roam over me. And absolutely ignoring the memory of every single thing he said last night before leaving Walter’s apartment.

Once I’m done and the cash is locked up in the safe, he asks, “So what’d you do last night, Pretty Girl?”

I groan. “God, can you please stop calling me that? It’s so cringey.”

Knox rolls his eyes. “Okay, Miss Veracruz,” he teases. “What did you do last night? Did you do anything fun? Pick up any other unsuspecting strangers at the local bar?”

“No.” I glare at him, but he just sips his coffee, waiting for an answer.

Well, after having dinner with my brother, his wife, and their two girls, I spent the night in my apartment above the garage coming to the image of your tongue, flat against my clit, me screaming out your name, and pulling on your hair begging for more.

I don’t mention it, obviously, since doing so would probably send some mixed signals.

“I watched a romcom,” I say instead, an involuntary smirk spreading across my face.

“Oh, yeah? Which one?”

Jeez Louise. This man. “I’m going to need more coffee this morning,” I mutter, my annoyance growing.

I get to my feet with my empty mug and walk over to the machine. But Knox scrambles over to me. “How do you take your coffee?” he asks, gently taking the mug from my hands. His fingers accidentally graze mine, causing me to nearly drop the mug. Knox breathes sharply, and I take comfort in knowing he’s at least somewhat affected by my presence. I’m not the only one acting like a teenager, apparently.

“Almond milk, two spoons of sugar,” I say, a little breathless.

“Teaspoons?”

“Table,” I say, shamelessly.

He clears his throat as he starts my coffee and reaches for the almond milk in the mini-fridge beside the sideboard.

“You like sweet stuff.” It’s not a question, just a statement of fact.

“I—Yes. How did you know?”

He grins, averting his eyes. “That night after the bar. You had several fruity mocktails at dinner. Ordered two different desserts. And every time you had a bite of one of them… It was like you were experiencing it for the first time. Like this visceral thing. A small moan. A faint smile. Sometimes, your eyes would even roll to the back of your head…” He shrugs, his eyes darkening. “I noticed.”

I gnaw on my lip, not knowing what to say. I’ve always loved sweets, but now? Sugary treats mean something different to me. I’m not trying to get pregnant anymore, and I’m not planning on letting my body control me ever again. After years and years of cutting out sugar and alcohol from my diet, enjoying a cookie or a Coke or a goddamn piece of chocolate means more to me than anyone will ever know. It means more than just having a sweet tooth. It means freedom unlocked.

And he noticed.

“You don’t have to do this for me, you know,” I say, a bit impatient, struggling with the feeling in the pit of my stomach. I just want my goddamn coffee and to get out of here, this office suddenly too small for the both of us. I need to get away.