More by Clare James

Author:Clare James [James, Clare]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2013-06-19T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21

Jules

Foster doesn’t come to bed.

The. Entire. Night.

I guess I didn’t make that great of an impression on him. Should’ve listened to the flipping Eight Ball.

I’ve pretty much gone through every scenario I can think of to explain his actions, and none of them are good. There are no signs pointing to yes. Maybe last night was all Foster needed to decide it was a mistake. My mind is still reeling from the night. In the past week, he’s given me the two most erotic experiences of my life. But each time he left me craving more and now I feel alone and unwanted. It was clear he wanted last night to be over, so I pretended to go to sleep.

But how could that be?

How could the best night in my life not affect him? Didn’t he feel what we had? Didn’t he want the same thing?

This morning he came into my room to help me with my clothes; the distance between us stretched for miles and the air was thick with tension. Or maybe remorse. He tried to make a few jokes, play it off, but he wasn’t convincing.

I was left to put on my big girl panties and face facts. He doesn’t want me.

That, my friends, sucks balls—the droopy, hairy kind.

Thank God for work. At least there’s something in my life I’m good at—a place where I am wanted. It helps being here in the city, around people, where anything is possible. I give myself the pep talk I need to get by. I’ve been here before, after all. There’s no need to sulk. My summer of romance is still within my reach. I just have to take it…with someone else.

I know, how very Deepak Chopra of me.

Plus, it’s hard to be too devastated when I know I have Foster in my apartment for the next week. We have seven days left in this little arrangement. The question is, what could happen in a week? I hate that I’m burning with excitement just thinking about the answer to that question.

Letting myself indulge a little longer, I watch the hustle and bustle of the farmers market outside the window in my cubical. Dozens of people set up shop on the pedestrian-only street of Nicollet Mall to sell their wares as people head into the office. The florists are bundling huge bouquets of gladiolas in shades of reds, yellows, and oranges and the farmers are readying their homegrown fruit and vegetables.

“Hellooo.” A deep voice pulls me from my mental break—or breakdown.

It’s Jake.

There’s no question what his little daily visits are about. He’s made it clear over the past few days—especially at our after-hours sessions—with a familiar touch to my arm, an accidental brush of my thigh when we’re sitting on my couch, and the absolute undivided attention he gives me. Yesterday, he even swept my hair over my shoulder when it was hanging over our paperwork, and then left his hand there a little too long.

I don’t altogether hate it. In fact, I might even like it.

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