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I’m about to open the door and go back out when I hear the front door close. A few seconds later, his truck fires up as he pulls out of the driveway. And just like that, he’s gone.
Regret bubbles in my stomach as I release a deep breath. I missed my chance. I need to find him tomorrow and apologize to him.
For the rest of the night, I hop back on the computer and fill out a few more applications. Most of what I see is entry-level, and the thought of everything depresses me. It’s been a year since I left culinary school and I'm still not any closer to finding a good job. At my last job, I made a little more than minimum wage and could barely afford my rent. And now, here I am, being a freeloader off a man I just met.
A handsome man with gray eyes that shine with wisdom and tweak at the corner on the rare occasions he smiles. My heart clenches in my chest when I think about him and that tells me that I’ve let this go too far.
That’s another reason why I need to leave soon. I’m getting too fixated on this man, letting him invade my thoughts. Maybe I should have expected this…he’s the first man that looked like that who has taken interest in me in a while, even if it's just to save me from a tight spot. And especially a man that looks that good. Of course, I would fantasize about him. I'm only human.
But now I’m letting my fantasies intrude on reality and that’s where the problem lies.
I need to get a job and get as far away from him as possible.
I scroll and scroll, sending in application after application. And when my eyes go weary, I finally retire to bed.
I try as hard as possible not to think about Oliver, but my dreams refuse to cooperate.
In my dreams, the same gray eyes come to me. I replay the scene between him and his girlfriend, except this time, I'm the one going to him as he gets out of the car. He wraps his arms around me. Dropping a kiss on my lips. And he takes it even further. He swings me up and holds my butt, molding it as he takes my lips in his. My heart is trying to beat out of my chest but I don't care. He tastes and feels so good.
And without effort, he carries me in.
**
The next day, I don’t know what to expect. After my reaction yesterday, I'm wondering if he’ll come for breakfast, despite our deal. But then I hear his truck rolling into the driveway and relief floods through me.
Maybe he's coming to kick you out.The thought occurs to me as I head to the door, but at the same time, I don't think so. He gave me a month and he doesn't look like the type of guy to go back on his word. I head to the door, watching the handle twist and the first words out of my mouth as the doors open are, “I’m sorry.”
He freezes at the doorway, raising an eyebrow. “Huh?”
“For how I acted yesterday,” I continue. "I was super rude to you and that wasn’t right. I’m sorry about that.”
He cocks his head at me and crosses his arms. For a minute, I don’t think he’ll accept my apology. It’s difficult to tell how he's feeling from his facial expression, his emotions tucked tightly behind that stern mask of his. It doesn’t give even a hint of what he’s thinking.
Then he crosses his arms. “Why?”
I blink. “Why what?”
“Why were you rude yesterday?” he asks. “What was that about?”
I knew there was a chance he would ask me this, but I can’t tell him it was because I was jealous and delusional. No. I would rather crawl on broken glass.
“I think I was just having a bad day,” I say instead. “You know, with being homeless and broke and everything.”
“Don’t forget unemployed,” he says with a smirk.
I shake my head at him.Must he always remind me?"Yeah, that too."
He thinks about it and then nods. “Yeah, that seems like a lot to carry.”
Before this, I would have gotten offended, but now I know he’s not necessarily trying to insult me. To him, he’s simply stating a fact or maybe just joking.
And some part of me is actually happy that he is taking it so lightly. Him saying it so much is taking the sting out of my unfortunate circumstances. Maybe if he had pussyfooted around it, then I would continue to be embarrassed, but he doesn’t treat it like it’s a delicate subject. He bulldozes right over it, the same way he does with most of his conversations.
"Here I was, thinking it was your time of the month," he says suddenly, and I frown at him.
"That's very rude to talk about."
"I think we've already established that I'm not the polite type of man."
