Sweet Filthy Boy(44)

There’s a lightness in my chest as I near our building, followed by a distinct jump in my pulse when I spot Ansel’s motorcycle parked on the sidewalk just out front.

I fill my lungs as I step into the tiny lobby and walk toward the elevator. My hand shakes as I press the button for our floor and I remind myself to breathe. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Keep it together. This will be the first time Ansel has arrived home before me; the first time we’ll actually be in the apartment together without one of us half asleep or vomiting or working into the early hours of the morning. My cheeks burn as I remember him growling, “Don’t take it back,” only this morning after I got myself off with his hand.

Oh dear God.

My stomach erupts into butterflies, and a mix of nerves and adrenaline propels me out of the elevator. I fit my key into the lock, take a deep breath, and swing open the door.

“Honey, I’m home!” I bounce into the entryway and stop at the sound of Ansel’s voice.

He’s in the kitchen, phone pressed to his ear and speaking in such rapid-fire French I’m not sure how the person on the other end of the line can possibly understand him. He’s clearly agitated, and repeats the same phrase, louder and more irritated each time.

He hasn’t noticed me yet and although I have no idea what he’s saying or who he’s talking to, I can’t help but feel like I’m intruding. His annoyance is like another person in the room and I quietly set my key on the table and wonder if I should step back into the hall or maybe excuse myself to the bathroom. I see the moment he catches my reflection in the living room window: he stiffens and his eyes go wide.

Ansel turns, tight smile in place, and I lift my hand, offering a small, awkward wave.

“Hi,” I whisper. “Sorry.”

He waves back, and with another apologetic smile holds up a finger signaling for me to wait. I nod, thinking he means for me to wait while he ends his call . . . but he doesn’t. Instead he nods toward the back of the flat and then moves across the floor and into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

I can only stare, blinking at the simple white door. His voice filters out into the living room and, if possible, is even louder than it was before.

Deflating, I let my bag slip from my shoulder to land in a heap on the couch.

There are groceries on the counter: a bag of fresh pasta, some herbs, and a wedge of cheese. A baguette wrapped in brown paper sits next to a pot of water that’s just starting to boil. The simple wooden table is set in bright red dishes, a bouquet of purple flowers spilling from a small vase in the center. He was making us dinner.

I open a few of the cupboard doors, searching for a wineglass, and try to ignore the words I can still hear in the other room. To a person I don’t know. In a language I don’t speak.

I also try to tamp down the thread of uneasiness that’s begun winding tightly in my gut. I remember Ansel telling me his boss was concerned he’d become distracted, and wonder if that’s who he’s talking to. It could be one of the guys—Finn or Oliver—or Perry, the one who couldn’t make it to Vegas. But would he sound this frustrated speaking to his boss, or a friend?

My eyes dart to the bedroom just as the door opens, and I jump, startling slightly before trying to look busy. I reach for a bunch of basil and search in the drawer nearest my hip for a knife.

“I’m so sorry,” he says.

I wave him off, and my voice comes out a little reedy: “Don’t worry! You don’t have to explain anything to me. You had a life before I got here.”

He leans forward, placing a kiss on each of my cheeks. God he smells good. His lips are so soft and I have to grip the counter to keep myself steady.

“I did have a life,” he says, taking the knife from my hand. “But so did you.” When he smiles it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. There’s no dimple. I miss it.

“Why does your job kill your joy?” I ask him, wishing he would touch me again.

With an amused grin, he shrugs. “I’m very junior at the firm still. We’re representing a huge corporation in a very big case, so I have thousands and thousands of pages of documents to go through. I don’t even think the attorneys who have been there for thirty years remember being this busy.”

I lift a small tomato to my lips, humming against it and saying, “That stinks,” before popping it in my mouth.

He watches me chew, nodding slowly. “It does.” His eyes darken and he blinks once, and then again, harder, his eyes clearing as his gaze meets mine again. “How was your day?”

“I feel guilty I’m out there having so much fun and you’re stuck in the office all day,” I admit.