Oh. Well. I would say that this is awkward, but it’s a pretty common occurrence. Women come home with me even after I make it clear that I’m not looking for anything serious. And then they try to manufacture ways for us to see each other again. What they don’t understand is, if I’d wanted to see them again, I would have. I’m not shy, and I’ve never been afraid of going after what I want. And I certainly don’t need to hear another conversation about how I “just haven’t found the right woman.” If I gave two shits about finding “the right woman” I would’ve already found her. I live in New York City, the epicenter of beautiful, talented, accomplished women who are great to spend a night with. But I’m just not looking for someone I have to text if I want to go out for a drink after a hard day at work.
“I’ll have it sent to you,” I say sharply. “What’s your address?”
She runs beside me in silence for a few beats, probably trying to figure out another way after I didn’t take the bait. “Well, tonight’s my last night in New York, I was only here for a month, remember?”
“Of course,” I lie. I vaguely remember she works for a finance firm and that she likes sushi, but that’s probably it.
“Could we maybe catch up for a drink?” she finally asks outright.
I give her points for directness. But that’s all. I stop and pull my sunglasses up over my head. I owe her directness in return for hers. “You know what, Carrie? I’m sorry, I’m just not interested. It was nice to meet you, though. Enjoy the rest of your time in New York.” And I run.
I’ll find a way to replace her sunglasses. I’m sure Marika, my housekeeper, has it somewhere in a lost and found box, just like the one in Clarissa’s bottom draw.
Clarissa.
The thought of her fuels something in my feet and I run faster than I have in a long time.
Last night was… confusing.
After she fainted at the office, I sprang into action, carrying her out to the car, then calling Jordan on the way to the apartment. He was just finishing up his shift at the clinic and offered to meet me at home.
The whole time he was examining her, I barely took a breath, just hoping for him to say that she’d be okay.
She’d looked like a rag doll, limp, weak, lifeless.
Unlike any version of Clarissa I’ve ever known.
Fucking Patrick. He is going to fucking pay.
Afterwards, the way she’d lain there, pale and wincing as I poured her the tea, I’d wanted to take her into my arms and tell her that she’d be okay.
Something is wrong with me.
Not only have I never, ever had that urge for any woman, but why is it about Clarissa of all people? What is it about her vulnerability that excites and calms me both at once?
Getting into this arrangement with her, it’s suddenly seeming like a bad idea. Speaking of the arrangement, I stop at a bench and collapse onto it, tapping on my ear bud. “Call Paula.”
She picks up on the second ring, probably after groaning at seeing my name. “Yes?”
“Paula. Come see me at ten a. m.”
A pause. “I have-”
I cut her off. “I think you’re going to want to be there. I’m bringing my fiancee to meet you.”
I don’t give her the chance to respond before I hang up, because she’s going to ask questions. A lot of them. And I don’t have any answers for her.
My phone rings just as I get to my feet.
It’s Kevin. “She left, sir. I’m following her.”
Shit. I thought she might do this. I’d had Kevin keep an eye on her to see if she’d sneak out. Not ideal considering I was going to bring her some breakfast to make sure she was okay. But at least I’m going to find out where she lives.
“Where is she now?”
Kevin grunts, he’s probably turning into a street. It’s funny what you learn about people when you spend so much time together. “I think she’s going straight to her club, sir.”
She couldn’t say away from work for one morning? “Let me know if she leaves there. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And, Kevin”-I hate that I even have to tell him this-“make sure no one is waiting outside the club when she gets there, okay?”
Something about the thought that that fucking low life is just lingering around there makes me want to murder him.
My legs forget that they’ve already run ten miles; I leg it all the way to Malt.
***
“She hasn’t left,” Kevin tells me when I get there.
“How did she look?”
He grimaces. “Not great, sir. She was carrying her clothes in her arms, though, and wearing a pair of sweatpants and a big T-shirt.”
My clothes. She doesn’t hate me enough not to wear my clothes. I itch to see how she looks in them.
The club’s back door is locked, and while it stops me going inside, I’m glad that she’s at least trying to be cautious.
So, I knock.
I knock for ten minutes, trying not to scare her after her ordeal yesterday.
“Clarissa, it’s Matthias. Let me in,” I shout until my throat is hoarse. I knock until my knuckles are sore and red, but I still keep trying, banging on the door.
Suddenly, the door flings open.
She’s still dressed in my T-shirt and track pants but her hair is wet, face clean, clear of makeup.
“Matthias, what are you doing here?” she says, wary.
Seriously? “What am I doing here? You just snuck out of the apartment.”
“I didn’t sneak!” She frowns. “I just left to go home.” Something unreadable flashes across her face and it’s gone before I can catch it.
“You’re not feeling well.” It’s a statement rather than a question. It’s impossible trying to argue with her.