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* * *
Quinten clutched Saige’s hand in his as they rode the elevator up to Saige’s apartment in Tampa. He’d been nervous to leave the beach house and the wide-open space of the beach and ocean for an apartment building in the much larger city—he hated it.
If it hadn’t been for the report from Dr. Erikson, then he doubted they’d have come back so soon. But here they were and he tried to keep his apprehension to himself, although with the quick glances Saige kept giving him, he didn’t think he succeeded.
She squeezed his hand, and smiled as the doors of the elevator opened and they stepped out.
“We’re right here,” Saige said, and opened the door.
He was surprised at the wide-open layout of the apartment when they stepped inside. Floor to ceiling glass walls along two sides of the apartment opened it up even more, and he could see Tampa stretching out on the horizon to the ocean. Everything was in white and pastel, but it was the brown, leather chair that held his gaze. It was so out of contrast to the rest of the apartment that he smiled to himself.
“The chair”—she smiled, and wrapped her arm around his waist—“something told me I had to bring it with me. Now that I have my memories back, I’m glad I did.”
“I am as well. We really got to know each other on that chair.” Quinten smiled, and bent his head to kiss Saige on the top of hers. Not only had they spent time talking, but he sat in that chair with Saige in his lap every night for a month in frustration—every smile, every touch, had affected him deeply.
Movement from the corner of his eye, drew his attention.
Saige lifted her head, but kept her arm around his waist. “Tamsyn, I wasn’t sure if you were home.”
He frowned because the other woman didn’t look too friendly, and his suspicion was confirmed when Saige moved further away from him—her fingers intertwining with his.
“What’s wrong?” Saige asked.
Tamsyn disappeared and a minute later returned with two large suitcases. “I’m sorry to do this, Saige, but I’ve found somewhere else to live. I know how it looks and I guess you’d be right.” Tamsyn glanced at Quinten and back to Saige. “I didn’t want to move. I love living here and we get on well, it’s just that I can’t stand the constant harassment every time I leave the apartment. The press wants to know where you are. How you’ve been living? If your memory loss
was real? I can’t do it anymore. I’m sorry.”
Tamsyn tugged the cases to the door and turned back to Quinten. “I’m glad you’re both back together...I’m sorry.” She left.
“You okay?” Quinten glanced at Saige’s stunned expression.
“I can’t believe she left.” Saige bit her bottom lip, and he reached out and rescued it from her teeth with his finger. “We were friends, not best friends, but...” she sighed and he saw tears shimmering in her eyes. Then she shook her head and said, “At least we have the place to ourselves.” She smiled and shrugged. “C’mon, I’ll give you a tour.”
He followed Saige and tried to hide the panic that had started to build inside of him. He’d never been claustrophobic before but he had a feeling that that was what was wrong with him. The large windows in the main part of the apartment had views of other apartment buildings, and the other side the ocean. He spotted the lounge chairs on the balcony, and he knew where he’d be coaxing Saige to sleep tonight.
* * *
10:00pm
* * *
Saige worried with Quinten having sat out on the balcony since they’d reached her apartment hours ago. He’d made all the right noises as she showed him around, but now she felt that something was off with him.
They needed to talk.
Grabbing two beers from the fridge, Saige made her way toward him and smiled when he tugged her down onto his lap instead of the separate lounger. His arms tightened around her as he nuzzled into her neck. “I love holding you like this, smelling you,” he chuckled.
“Smelling me, huh?” Saige made herself comfortable so that she could see his face and offered him an amused smile. “What’s wrong?” She caressed along his brow and down the side of his face, tracing along the faint scars down his cheek.
“Honestly, I’m finding all this difficult.”
“Oh.” Saige dipped her eyes and wondered what he referred to as being difficult.
“Not you, Saige.” He cupped her chin. “I need space—” He quickly cut off his words and tightened his hand on her hip. “I’m not explaining myself very well.” He closed his eyes and tucked her head under his chin. “I’ve spent years in a small space where I had to wear chains if I left the cell. Now that I’m free, I need open spaces, and I’m struggling being in the city with so many people. I’m struggling being inside this apartment.” He kissed her forehead. “But for my need of peace and quiet with you, I’d love this place. You’ve only half made it a home though, right?”
She was surprised he remembered what they used to talk about—her dream place. “I used to want a lot of color and space with our books sharing shelf space, and the old, brown leather chair close by so that we could both curl up and snuggle together while reading or just relaxing.”
“That’s right, and the only thing you got right was the chair,” he observed and she realized it wasn’t a criticism but a genuine observation. “When we start to build a home together we’re going to have that color. I’m going to build us the most amazing bookcase for your books—I’ve no idea where mine are—and it’s going to our place. It’s going to be ours, babe. I can see it now.”
