Final Call (The Call #2) (21 page)

I roll my eyes. “You
and the red thing.”

“I like you in red. You
look like the temptation you are.”

“Like a great big
chocolate cake in front of a dieting person?”

His lips quirk. “If you
say so, Dayton.”

I smile and tug my foot
from his hold, righting myself in the seat. Arriving back in
Seattle is a blessing and a curse. The blessing falls in knowing
that we’re both on the same page about this relationship. Well,
mostly, anyway. We know it’s real. There’s no money, no obligation,
no forcing. Just very real, very consuming feelings.

That’s not to say that
this will be easy. Obvious things aside, a relationship is based on
more than sex and love. Those things can’t make a relationship.
They can make it better, oh yes, but they can’t make it something
strong enough to go the distance. Sex and love don’t make a
relationship something real enough to last forever.

It’s the little things
that do that. Like Aaron said in Vegas, it’s the little things that
mean the most. The things you pass on by because they’re seemingly
irrelevant although they’re really the most important things.

Love is how the other
person likes their coffee on a morning. How long they put their
toast in the toaster for. How they like their throw pillows on the
sofa to be arranged. How hot they have their shower water. How many
bubbles in the bath.

How they always leave
empty glasses on the bar in the kitchen, and how they know exactly
how you take your coffee. How they know how many candles to light
around a bathtub before you get in, and how chilled your wine has
to be before it’s an acceptable drinking temperature.

We still have so much
to learn about each other, and while I know there’s no rush, I want
to know these things. I want to know if he prefers butter or jelly
on his toast on a morning and if really he prefers tea over coffee,
which I suspect he does.

I want to know if he
changes the temperature of the shower water to my preference of red
hot instead of a normal hot. I want to know every little thing I
don’t.

Because at the end of
the day, when it gets hard and you’re in the middle of the room
shouting at each other over something trivial, you won’t remember
the huge declarations of love. When you’re sitting against your
bedroom door crying because you hate fighting, you’ll remember the
way he smiles at you over breakfast and the way he trails his thumb
down your spine to make you shiver.

You’ll remember all the
crazy little things that remind you that, no matter what, no matter
how difficult or impossible it may seem, there’s no one else in
this world more perfect for you than he is.

“What are you
thinking?” Aaron strokes the inside of my wrist with his thumb.

I roll my head to the
side and smile. “I’m thinking I’m really glad you hired Mia
Lopez.”

He leans forward and
kisses me with his own smile playing on his lips.

And I am. In all
honesty, I’m completely glad he hired me that night. Regardless of
the events since, staying and seeing it out was the best thing I
could have done.

I can’t control love. I
know this. But I can control how much of an impact it has on my
life. I can control whether or not I choose to let it
be
my
life. And that’s what I’m doing. Instead of letting it spiral
crazily inside me, instead of fighting it, I’m embracing it.

I’m giving Aaron my
all, and he’s giving me his.

I look out the window.
“Um, this isn’t the way to my house.”

“I know. You’re staying
with me tonight.”

“Demanding again, Mr.
Stone?”

“Requirement, Miss
Black.”

“You’re getting awfully
requirement-happy lately. Are you aware of this?”

His eyes crash into
mine, the lust there tugging at my own desire, and his lips curve
into a dangerously sexy smirk that makes me want to kiss it off
him.

“Oh, I’m very aware. My
cock is also aware of its numerous requirements. Requirements you
will be finding out more about very, very soon.”

“Sounds promising.”

“I never joke about
fucking you, Miss Black.”

“Is that so?” I run my
tongue across my bottom lip. His eyes follow the movement, and he
cups my chin, pulling my face to his.

“There’s nothing funny
about making you come, Dayton. Nor is there anything funny about
having my cock so deep inside you that you can’t feel anything but
me.”

My desire flares like a
lit match. It engulfs my body as his words strike up any number of
thoughts about the way he moves inside me, and I swallow hard like
it’ll counteract the aching in my core.

“I agree. It’s a very
serious matter,” I manage, trying to keep a straight face.

Aaron stares at me
until we reach his apartment building and we get out. He places a
hand on either side of my waist, steering me toward the elevator,
and lowers his mouth to my ear.

“A very serious matter
I intend to take care of tonight. Perhaps twice.”

My mouth goes dry. Holy
fuck. Yes. Please do.

The elevator doors open
and he unlocks his apartment door, pausing slightly before opening
it. I look at his hand then him. As if my eyes on him flicks
something, he pushes the handle down and the door swings open.

I step in before I
realize that anything is different. And freeze when I see it.

My coats are hanging on
the hooks in the hallway. Some of my throw pillows are strewn
across the large U-shaped sofa, and my books have filled the
bookcase that curves behind it. I stroll into the bathroom without
speaking, and sure as shit, my stuff is in here too. My toothbrush.
My shampoo. My soap.

I yank open the
cupboard doors beneath the sinks and find all my of my beauty
products lined up—exactly the way I had them in my own bathroom. My
towels are hanging on the rails next to the bath, and my favorite
Yankee candles are sitting in the windowsill.

What. The. Fuck?

Slamming the door
behind me, I walk into Aaron’s bedroom, ignoring my other candles
on the side, and shove my way into his closet. My clothes are
hanging next to his. My shoes are lined beneath them, from boots to
heels to sandals, and the box holding all my nail polishes and
extra makeup is sitting on the shelf above the rail.

The large canvas of us
he showed me in his office apartment is hanging on the wall in
here, and when I walk next door to his office, there are another
two pictures. One framed on the desk, one on the wall.

I cover my eyes with my
hand, my chest tight. It takes a lot for me to take a deep breath
and not scream at him when I walk back into the main room.

“Either someone who has
belongings exactly the same as me has taken residence in your
apartment or you’ve moved me in.”

“I’ll ease your mind
and confirm the latter.”

I put my hands on my
hips. Don’t shout. Don’t freak. Don’t go—

“What the fuck, Aaron?
You said you didn’t do anything stupid! Jesus! I told you I wasn’t
ready for this! I can’t fucking believe you’ve moved me into your
apartment without even asking me!”

So much for not going
crazy.

“I wasn’t lying when I
said I hadn’t done anything impulsive. I did it after.”

“Oh, and that makes it
all better, does it? It’s totally fucking okay because you didn’t
lie to me about it. Oh my god!” I run my fingers through my hair.
“How the hell did you even get into my house?”

“Your best friend has a
spare key.”

“You roped Liv in on
this?”

“I may not have been
completely honest when I told her you’d requested some of your
belongings be moved here.”

I exhale through pursed
lips. “You and I? Not fucking talking right now.”

I spin on my heels and
stalk into the spare bedroom, ready to face-plant the bed and
scream into the pillow. But of course, I can’t. Because of course
he’s turned that into a lingerie room. My lingerie room. With space
for all my new stuff.

And it’s organized
perfectly. Just how I had it. As if he’d been in and taken photos
before everything was transferred.

I leave the room again.
Aaron’s leaning against the bar, a steaming mug in hand, his eyes
following me.

“What do you expect me
to do with my house? Am I supposed to sell it now?”

He shakes his head.
“No, absolutely not. Without meaning to bring up our previous
conversation, my apartment isn’t exactly where I imagine living
with you in the future.”

Ah, yes. That
conversation.

“So, what? I’m supposed
to pay a mortgage on a house I’m not even living in?”

“You’ll find that an
amount covering the rest of your mortgage repayments was deposited
into your account this morning for you to pay it off.”

“Fuck no.” I stalk
across the room and jab my finger in his chest. “That is
my
house, and I’m not letting you pay it off. I’m calling the bank
tomorrow and having it sent back to your account. I will pay it
off.”

Great. Now there’s
another one hundred and twenty-five thousand I have to find for
Naomi.

Aaron curls his fingers
around my wrist and lowers my hand. “By all means, sweetheart, have
it transferred back to my account. You’ll find it’ll be back in
yours within the hour.”

“You’re not paying off
my house,” I say through gritted teeth. “I don’t need or want you
to.”

He leans across the
bar, his mug hitting the surface of it with a gentle clunk, and
tugs my face toward him. “And one day that will be
our
house, just like this will be
our
apartment, and
our
company, and
our
money. I know you like to do things
yourself, but start getting used to me doing them for you because
it’s going to happen a lot more often.”

“I am so mad at you
right now that I don’t even know what to say.” I knock his hand
from me and walk into the bedroom, letting the door slam behind
me.

The bedroom.

Our bedroom.

I kick off my shoes and
leave my clothes in a heap before climbing into bed.

Our bed.

Huh.

***

A mug of coffee is
waiting on the nightstand when I wake up. I steal a look at the
clock on Aaron’s side, blinking when it reads eight thirty p.m.
I’ve slept all afternoon?

Damn jet lag.

I inhale the rich scent
of the coffee before taking my first sip. It’s still piping hot,
and my eyes flit to the open bedroom door. I can’t hear anything—no
television, no music, no low rumble of his voice.

I place the cup back on
the side and grab some shorts and a tank from the closet. Seeing my
clothes next to his is a little surreal, and now that I’ve cooled
off thanks to my unplanned nap, I can’t deny the flutter in my
stomach at the sight.

I can’t deny that a
part of me loves the fact I really do get to wake up next to him
every morning and fall asleep in his arms each night.

When I find him in his
office, he’s sitting at the desk, hunched over, his fingers moving
at lightning speed across the keyboard. He must be totally
engrossed in what he’s doing, because he doesn’t move as I curl up
in the corner of the sofa.

I open one of the books
I took from the front room during my search for him and drop my
eyes to it. As I turn the pages, I know that he’s registered my
presence. He can’t not—unless there’s someone else who comes into
his office on a regular basis and reads while he works.

Still, he doesn’t turn.
He continues his tapping, clicking, whatever he’s doing. So I don’t
speak either, and we settle into a comfortable silence that somehow
kills the remaining tension between us.

And this is…nice. Both
of us here, not speaking, doing our own things. It’s comforting in
the oddest kind of way, not least because I’m not used to being in
the same room without interacting with him in some way. Whether
it’s talking, touching, kissing—we’re always doing something. But
here, we’re individuals together.

After several chapters,
I hear the click of the laptop closing. I peer over the top of the
book, and Aaron joins me on the sofa. His black shirt stretches
over his shoulders, and his hair is all mussed like he’s been
rubbing his fingers through it repeatedly.

I turn my attention
back to the pages to finish the chapter, feeling his eyes on me the
whole time. I slip the bookmark from the back cover and use it to
mark my page.

Aaron reaches out and
runs his hand down my thigh. “Did you sleep well?”

“Your mattress is
awful,” I reply. “If you were going to bring my stuff over, you
could have brought my mattress.”

He smiles. “I agree.
Your mattress is much comfier than mine. I’ll rectify that
tomorrow.”

“Good.” I nod and set
the book on the floor next to me. “When did you do it? Move my
stuff here?”

“The day after Tessa’s
wedding.” He moves up the sofa and lifts my legs over his. His arm
settles across the back of the cushions and he threads his fingers
into my hair, gently running them through to the ends. “I know you
told me you weren’t ready, but then we had that conversation about
the future about the things you’re not ready for being the things
you want the most.”

“And you’re using that
as an excuse.”

“No. Not an excuse. The
first reason.”

“And the second?”

He runs his fingers
down my cheek. “The look in your eyes when you told me how much you
needed me to tell you I love you. I didn’t realize it was so
important to you until then, and it was that moment that made me
realize it’s important to me to tell you every single day. The only
way I can do that—and show you at the same time—is if you live with
me.”

Well, how the fucking
hell am I supposed to argue with that?

That’s right. I’m not.
So he’s going to get away with it.