"I'll just shower quick and then run out," I told her, stepping out of my shoes and socks and pushing my pants and boxer briefs to the floor. Her gaze followed every movement, but her mouth did absolutely zero talking.
"Did you want to join me, honey?" I asked.
"No," she answered yet nodded her head at the same time.
I bit my lip to contain my laugh. "Throw those clothes in the hamper, okay?" I prompted with a wink and then climbed under the spray. I hadn't even needed a shower, but fuck if the warm water didn't feel good on my buzzing nerves as I watched the most obstinate woman on the planet stoop down to scoop up my dirty clothes. Confusion was an extremely powerful thing.
Showered and dressed, I walked out into the living room to find Cassie stretched out on the couch with the TV remote in hand. The screen was still black.
When I made it to her and she didn't move, I reached toward her hand and pushed the power button without saying a word and then leaned down to touch my lips to her cheek. Her skin was warm and smelled like citrus. Immediately caught up in the memories of sex and us, I had to fight the urge to linger.
"I'll be back," I called as I walked out the door. When I settled on the other side, I was overwhelmed by déjà vu, but this time, the all-encompassing question had more to do with me than it did her. "What the ever-loving fuck is going on?"
The situation, my reaction, the way it made me feel. All of it felt completely foreign.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I scrolled through recent calls and hit Kline before I moved an inch.
"Yeah?" he asked, laughter in his voice.
I closed my eyes and shook my head. I should have known. "You gave her a key, didn't you?"
"I didn't," he denied. "But Georgie did."
"What the fuck, man? Is there no bro code in that cold heart of yours?"
His chuckles were obnoxious. "I thought it was hilarious. And she's just messing with you. You should be in heaven. You're always messing with everyone."
"That's right," I corrected. "I mess with everyone. Not the other way around."
"Ah," he breathed. "I see how it is."
I narrowed my eyes at the realization he was making me out to be a pussy.
"I can handle it. I'm just not used to it."
"Poor Thatch," Kline fake pouted.
"Screw you. I don't know why I call you."
"Because you're looking for reason, and I'm normally the voice of it."
"Yeah, normally," I agreed.
He laughed again, and I sighed long and deep. "Just have fun with it. That's what you do with everything else."
He was right. And there was one thing I found enjoyable above all others.
"That's it," Kline said with excitement in his voice just before I hung up. "That's the sound of plotting."
Fuck right.
The door clicked shut behind Thatch, and I stayed on his couch, a bit taken aback by the events that had just gone down. My gaze roamed his apartment-now, my apartment?-taking in the neutral yet sleek décor. Unable to comprehend what had happened between Thatch and me, or any of the implications of it, I came to the only conclusion I could: he had definitely paid someone to decorate his bachelor pad.
No fucking way he was this forward thinking in the interior decoration department.
The minimalist approach was completely modern and highlighted with strategically placed black, white, and gray accents.
Whoever had designed this place had a very keen eye. They had known the huge window framing the living room would bring in natural light that would make the darker style appear warm and inviting versus drab and melancholy.
The photographer inside me wanted to add a few black-and-white photographs of places I had traveled to the walls beside that huge window, which only led to my confusion.
Was I really moving in now? Decorating his shit?
Needing information, I found the ability to move my body off his couch and into his bedroom, where I had last left my purse. I grabbed my phone, plopped down on his big-ass bed, and called the one and only person I could call in a moment like this.
"Well, hello, Cass," Georgia answered, and her voice hinted at amusement.
My eyebrows rose with suspicion. "It sounds like you were expecting my call."
"Why would you say that?" She feigned bewilderment. The day Georgia Brooks was able to lie with a straight face and a convincing voice, hell would freeze over and I'd be able to teleport myself onto David Gandy's cock whenever I wanted.
"Oh, I don't know," I answered, laughing a little at how truly terrible my best friend was at lying. "Maybe because you can barely hold back your giggles. And I know for a fact, when you're two seconds away from turning giggly, you're one hundred percent full of shit."
"I am not full of shit," she responded, but I could literally hear her swallow the urge to burst into laughter.
"Acting would've been a horrible career path for you, by the way," I teased. "But since I love you, I'm going to take the bait and act like I actually believe the words coming out of your mouth."
"I'm not lying!" she exclaimed.
"Uh-huh, sure you're not … Would you like me to tell you about what just happened?"
"Yes," she responded far too quickly. My spidey sense was tingling. She already knew something.
"Well, I'm at Thatch's apartment, and honestly, I'm not sure if I should start calling it my apartment." I sat up from the bed and stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows that gave a gracious view of the city. "My original plan was to fake move in and ruffle the prankster's feathers a bit, but things didn't exactly go as planned."
"What happened?"
"Well, he didn't freak out or try to get a restraining order. He got naked, took a shower, and then went out to get us dinner. Not gonna lie, I'm not quite sure what to do with this."
"Do you think he's … maybe … screwing with you back?"
"Do you think he's doing that?" I tossed her question back. "Why don't you just go ahead and tell me what you already know?"
Fabric rustled in the background like maybe she was covering the mouthpiece of her phone.
"I'm not saying I know anything, but I'm not saying I don't either," she answered vaguely when a slight hum of ambient noise returned to the line.
Georgia was a special brand of fiddle. You had to really tune her up right, and begging wasn't the way to do it. But, as her longtime best friend, I knew the one thing that would make her little informational bow fly-act like I was freaking the fuck out. Her immune system had absolute shit defense against hysteria.
"So … I shouldn't be concerned? I mean, what if when he says he's got his hands in all kinds of things, he's actually living a secret life? What if I just accidentally moved in with the next Ted Bundy?" I forced my voice to rise a few octaves toward panic.
"Cassie," she started to chime in, but I cut her off, going all out with the dramatics.
"What am I supposed to do now? I think I just moved myself in with a psychopath! What if he's a serial killer, Wheorgie?" I started rummaging through his nightstand for added effect, knowing full well she'd be able to hear the commotion. Condoms. Ticket stubs. An old cell phone. No Beretta 9mm or bowl of teeth.
"Cass, calm down." She tried to talk over me, but I kept up the charade.
"There's nothing in his nightstand, but serial killers are notorious for covering all of their tracks. They don't hide shit in their nightstands, do they! Oh God, they hide things under floorboards and behind secret doors where they have their stash of crazy and walls filled with pictures of their victims! Oh. My. God. I'm going to end up on one of those FBI Files shows, and it will be all your fault!"
I hopped off the bed and put the phone on speaker as I started stomping my feet along the hardwood floor. "The secret floorboards would sound hollow, right? And what are secret doors supposed to sound like when you find them?"
"Cassie!" Georgia's voice echoed inside the bedroom.
"What?" I asked as I continued stomping my feet along the floor.
"Stop going through his shit. Thatch is not a serial killer."
Once my feet got tired, I grabbed a nail file from my purse and sat down on the beige chaise in front of the window. "Then why is he going to get us dinner?" I yelled as I filed my nails. "Why isn't he freaking out that some stranger-albeit a very attractive woman-took it upon herself to just move in with him?"
Come on, Georgia. Spill the juicy gossip. You know you want to …
"I'm like ninety-nine percent sure he's messing with you back. He might be on to your prank," she finally admitted on a whisper.
"Ninety-nine percent sure is not reassuring, Wheorgie! That one percent could be the one percent that has me ending up on a missing persons' website!" I shouted as I held my right hand out in front of me. Man, oh man, I really need a manicure.