AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I have a late showing, Catarina. I told you this.”
“No, you didn’t,” I say, a tad petulantly. Either I have early onset Alzheimer’s, or he didn’t tell me. This is the third time in two weeks he’s had a late appointment I didn’t recall him mentioning. “When will you be done?”
“Late. The apartment building is across town, and the buyers flew in from Japan. I’m going to have to do the whole take-them-out-for-drinks-and-kiss-their-asses bit. You know how I hate that.” He leans in and presses a kiss to my cheek. I inhale the scent of him—as crisp as autumn with low-key spice notes.
“I like that new cologne,” I murmur, ticking my fingers down his shirt buttons.
“Not now, Catarina.”
I drop my arm with a huff. North and I have been dating for six months now. I didn’t expect the sex to drop off a steep cliff three months in, but it did. Lately, we see each other less and less, which is putting a chink in my perfectionist armor. Our relationship should be stronger, especially this early on.
Now’s not the time to address it. Maybe I’ll dig up some of my former articles as talking points. North does better when he has an agenda for a conversation.
“See you tomorrow,” I tell him as he shuts the door with a soft click.
I sigh into my wineglass, thinking again how it shouldn’t be this hard for a relationship columnist to have a relationship.
The next day at work I search through some of my former articles. “How to Lure Him In Using Your Brain.” Oh, that was a good one. It doesn’t apply to North and me though. He fell for my brain first and foremost.
Oh, here’s one. “The Seven Month Itch: How to Survive Your First Year of Dating.” I hesitate a moment before printing it. I’ve had other relationships that have bypassed the seven-month point. Maybe there’ll be some insight in there I’ve since forgotten. The printer at my desk whirs to life as I come across another one I wrote two years ago that, frankly, I forgot about. “How to Tell If He’s Cheating.”
My finger is hovering over the trackpad on my laptop, the pointer positioned over the x. I should close the search window. There’s no way North would cheat on me any more than I would cheat on him. In the same manner I told him about Barrett and this ludicrous situation, North would tell me first if he had even a stir of interest in someone else. We agreed to that stipulation when we began dating. It was only logical to break up if interest lagged.
I think about our current sex rut and bite my lip. I hate uncertainty.
Rather than click the x, I scroll through the article, skimming my own bold, bullet-pointed advice.
He stops saying “I love you.”
Well. North doesn’t believe in saying “I love you,” so I can throw that one out. I scroll to the next bold header.
He stops having sex with you.
Embarrassing, but nonetheless true. I scroll to the next one.
He stops spending time with you.
This one, I read.
You remember when you were first together. The blush of new romance, the way he couldn’t take his eyes off you. Now you’re in the same room with him and he’s checking his phone for incoming texts while you read on your tablet—maybe you’re reading this very article. Truth time: He’s not working late. He’s cheating. And those texts he’s waiting for are probably from the woman he’s cheating on you with.
“Ouch. A cheater.” A low voice rumbles in my ear.
I slam the lid of my laptop shut and whirl my chair around, coming face to face with Barrett Fox.
“Sneaking up on me now?” My voice is a little crazed, probably because he’s better looking than I remember him being yesterday. An odd observation to be sure. The printer stops spitting papers and I make a show of pulling them from the tray and stapling them together.
“You’re not the only one quiet on your feet, Kitty Cat.”
I call up North’s advice to not let Barrett rile me. It’s a smart tactic. I don’t have to react to everything he says. I don’t have to let him under my skin. He can’t burrow under there without my permission.
I stand from my chair. Barrett straightens from his bend to stand with me. He’s tall—six-one, I’d guess. North is six-five, so I’m used to looking way, way up. At five-seven and wearing four-inch heels, I stand nearly eye to eye with the former Miami Dolphins running back.
“I always had a chick willing to cheer me up when I split with my girlfriend, but I was never a cheater.” He makes a tsk sound out of the corner of his mouth. “Shame if that’s what your boyfriend’s doing.”
“He’s not doing that. He’s not doing anything.”
“Which is one of the signs. I was reading over your shoulder and spotted the no-sex thing. Is that the issue? Did he stop pleasing you between the sheets?”
