18. Juliana

EIGHTEEN

JULIANA

I've become a mole rat.

Under the hood of my sweatshirt, my fingers dance along my keyboard, accompanied by the deafening silence streaming through a pair of headphones. With every light flipped off, save for my monitors, I sit in total darkness, surrounded by walls of drawn curtains, as if someone on the street or inside a neighboring skyscraper with a set of binoculars might see what marks my cheeks. What's been there for the past five days.

Shame.

All-consuming, inescapable shame.

Which no doubt swirls in my own eyes, too. Not that anyone's seen them, either, including myself. I've avoided mirrors altogether, including those at The Caffeine Cove. Yep, I even called out of my shifts this week, said I came down with the flu, when I know damn well I'm just avoiding any and all human interaction, since what happened.

Since what he heard.

An uncomfortable wave of nausea rolls through me, prompting a debate of whether I should slither under my bed and never resurface. For a good fifteen-or-so years, at least. Tempting... very tempting, if it weren't for needing to eat.

My stomach growls, right on cue.

"Shhhh," I scold, typing a line of code.

Another rumble, louder this time. You skipped breakfast, it seems to say.

"We'll have a big lunch."

What is happening to me? Even a mole rat wouldn't talk to its own gut. This is a new low, Juliana.

A knot twists in response, squeezing a space that's achingly hollow. I grit my teeth, weathering the pain, and glance at the clock. Ten on the dot. I sigh, "Fine."

Clad in my finest attire—baggy sweatpants and an even baggier hoodie—I creep out the door, only to pick up the pace when I realize Hayden should've left for work an hour ago.

Sun blares through the windows like a glistening beacon, lighting up the kitchen in all its grandeur. Squinting, I speed by the marble island, stainless-steel appliances, and enter the walk-in pantry, which is, again, surely double the size of my old apartment. No shock there.

But there's no time to gawk.

I stand on my tippy toes, poking around in cupboards that are surprisingly well organized, searching for something quick and easy. A grab-and-go snack. Maybe a granola bar or cereal or—

"I'm not that late." Hayden's voice drifts from afar.

Shit.

I dash for the door, but he only grows louder. His tall frame turns into the kitchen, right before I switch off the pantry light, hide behind the door, and hope he doesn't notice that it's open.

"If Elias cares so much, I'll tell him to go take a hike—oh wait, he'd never leave the office."

My heart clammers against my ribs as I anticipate his entry, but when I hear the fridge open, I let loose a breath. Sneaking a peek around the door, I watch Hayden rummage through the fridge while holding a cellphone to his ear with his shoulder.

Surrounded by splendor only extreme riches can afford, he looks ready to get interviewed in some Architectural Digest video. Especially wearing that classic navy suit, which offsets the waves of his blond locks and molds to his body like a second skin.

Although, despite its tailored beauty, when he closes the fridge with something wrapped in aluminum in one hand, the other tugs at his collar, as if he's suffocated by the fabric.

"Exactly, you get it." He laughs at whatever the person on the other line said. "That's why I'm not stepping a foot into the office tomorrow. I don't care what he thinks. I'm not wasting another good Saturday, especially not one that's going to be in the nineties. He'd have to drag me by my ankles."

Unwrapping the aluminum on the center island, he reveals what appears to be a tuna melt. When he takes a bite, a chunk of tuna falls onto the foil, and I mumble a silent prayer that my stomach doesn't decide to get chatty.

"Mhmmm," he hums, chewing. "Well, he'd actually have to visit my apartment to do that. And you know how repulsed poor Elias is by large crowds, particularly ones with alcohol and fun."

Unease stirs within me. Alcohol and fun? Here, tomorrow? Is he planning what I think he is...?

"Oh, you know, bring the usual—Grey Goose, Dom Pérignon, that fruity jungle juice shit Alex makes that blacks out half your night, a couple bottles of Don Julio, margarita mix, some Upper East Side girls..."

He laughs again as annoyance burns down my center. Whether my reaction stems from hearing him mention other girls, or because he basically confirmed my suspicions, is unclear. But I'm telling myself it's the latter.

Denial is one helluva drug.

I shake my head, listening to him spout off more details, which clearly breach our contract, until I'm blistering with anger, spewing steam from my ears.

"... yep, we'll be at it till sundown. Plenty of time for you and Sasha to get well acquainted, if you know what I mea—"

"You're not throwing a party here!" I storm out of the pantry, making it all but three steps before I freeze, snapping a hand to my lips.

Hayden's mouth hangs ajar, words failing him as he stares at me, eyes wide like saucers, until his lips curl into a wicked grin. "I'll call you back."

Uh, oh. Twisting on my heel, I beeline it straight toward my bedroom—

"Why not? This is my house."

I grind to a halt. Why not...? WHY NOT? I whip back around. "Uhh, maybe because it's in our contract," I spit, my finger slicing through air, toward the paper taped to the fridge.

"Contract? What contract...?" Mischief emerges in his eyes as he rubs his chin, effectively cranking the dial on my blood pressure. He looks behind him. "Ohhhh, yes. That thing."

"That thing has your name signed at the bottom, or did you forget?"

"Hmmmm. I do see that." He clucks his tongue.

"And what about rule number five? Do you see that?"

Both parties agree not to throw a party or use illegal substances in the shared residence, I recite in my head, just as I could all the other rules.

"I do. But I also see number one."

"What of it?"

He faces me, letting the sun strike his features, which are so beautiful they physically cause me pain. Mostly because I'm mentally replaying all the sounds he overheard the other night, wishing I could sell my soul just to rewind time or wipe his memories of the incident.

"Well, it says we have to act like a couple around my friends. Sorry to break it to you, baby, but my friends like to party."

"Bring me to a different one, then. It doesn't have to be here."

"I throw a party on the first Saturday of every month. Haven't skipped the tradition in two years. They'll suspect something's off if I don't."

I nibble on my lip, feeling as though I'm caught in quicksand. "Jeremy might come over. We can't risk it."

His response is immediate. "He's out of town this weekend."

"No, he's..."

Wait a minute. I recall our conversation weeks prior, when he blabbered on about some tech conference he had just bought tickets for. I do the mental math, avoiding Hayden's cocky gaze. Is that this weekend...?

My face falls.

"Don't you worry that pretty head of yours." He takes a considerable step closer, then another, swiping a hand through his unruly locks, stealing my any hope of a rebuttal. "It's just a little gathering."

Little... gathering...

"Oh, and while we're on the topic of showing you off, I think it's time we get you some new clothes."

I perk up. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's just that, I usually date girls a little more..." He traces down my body, not bothering to hide his amused grin. "Showy."

Could he be any more rude?! I'm moments from tackling him to the ground or setting his rear end in flames, until I dare give myself a once-over.

"Don't get me wrong," he muses, "I'm all for the comfy look, but I don't think it's gonna fly tomorrow."

I ball my hands into fists, debating whether to send one flying at his perfect nose. "You think I'd wear this at a party? I may be a nerd, but I'm not socially inept." Well, not entirely, anyway...

His palms shoot out defensively. "Woah, woah. That's not what I meant—"

"And what's so wrong with my closet, huh?"

"Nothing. I'll admit, it could use a few more pieces but... I like the way you dress," he says, and I swear I detect nothing but honesty. My tension eases up, just a tad. "Unfortunately, though, the guests I invite to my parties, dollface, they're like bloodhounds, only their noses sniff out designer labels."

I bite my lip, fighting back a grin. Dammit, Juliana, don't laugh! He's still using pet names, when you told him not to.

He sinks a hand into his pocket, retrieving his wallet.

"I can buy my own clothes,"

"Not at these stores."

I cross my arms, denying the black card he offers me, even though I know he's right.

"Come on, Jules."

I turn my head, gazing out the windows.

"So, that's how it's gonna be, huh? Too proud to use my card."

"This isn't about pride," I scoff, but my tone lacks conviction, even to my own ears. What else would it be about?

"No?" he hums, taking another step, close enough now that his musky cologne frolics up my nostrils, clouding my judgment that's screaming at me to run back to my room. "Then I assume you're not too proud to discuss the other night."

My stomach drops. "Uh—Uhm... I don't know what you mean."

"You don't? Well, it happened four or five nights ago. I heard some interesting noises..."

Dreads wraps its tendrils around me, pinning my legs in place, and it takes every ounce of my effort not to vomit all over Hayden's polished Oxfords. Please God, if you're listening, just smite me already.

"Ew, I don't want to hear about your disgusting fantasies."

His brows tick upwards as he brushes his fingers down a strand of my hair, then twirls it around his pointer.

My toes curl in my slippers. "I-I mean... I think you're imagining things. Or had a weird dream."

"You're probably right. It did feel like one." He edges closer, forcing my neck to tilt back even more. "Want to know why?" When I can't utter a response, a low chuckle escapes him, and it's like I'm pressed up against that window all over again, a slave to my urges.

"Well, for starters..." His mouth is minty on the way down to my ear, igniting heat between my thighs. "Usually, from my experience, filthy things don't slip out of such pretty lips."

I gasp, scrambling away from him. From there, it's all a blur. On a tidal wave of adrenaline, I snatch that damn black card from his grasp—to hell with pride—and scurry down the hall like a spooked cat, leaving his smirk in my dust.

"My PIN is seven-two-six-five!"