Chapter 32: Xavier

Chapter 32: Xavier

She’s going to love this place, and with the loft, we can even keep her minging couch. It’ll be the perfect office for her.

Outside the balcony, there’s a large tree—maple, I think—which is home to a bird feeder. It’s a terrible place for a feeder as the squirrels probably dine there more than the birds, but to me, it’s a sign that this is home.

For the first time since that night with Phaedra, I’m feeling optimistic about my life. It’s all coming together. The Buzzards want me. I’m going to be playing again, and regularly too. This apartment even feels like home, already.

And it’s all because of Ophelia.

This sprite of a woman with the heart of a romantic has given me my life back.

When my phone dings with a text from Ophelia that she’s out front, I’m more than excited to see her.

I jog down the hall and take the stairs to the ground floor two at a time.

"You’re here! C’mon. This place is absolutely smashing. It’s perfect for us. You’re going to love it."

When Ophelia pulls down her mask, I can see her mouth is set into a tight line, and it stops me in my tracks.

"What’s up? You don’t seem like a happy chickadee."

She lifts her shoulders and lets them drop, her gaze trained on the floor. "Nothing. It’s fine. I’m sure it will be fine."

"No, it won’t. It’s more than fine." I take her hand and pull her down the hall. The rental agent is still waiting for us inside our unit. "Please trust me. I know you must on some level."

As we walk up the stairs, Ophelia says, in between breaths, "It’s just I like my place. It has character and charm. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not sleek and stylish. I’m not put together. That one link you sent—I’d never feel comfortable there. I’d always be afraid I’d break something. But I understand, it’s your place and your decision. So I’m telling myself I’ll be fine wherever."

We get to the door, and I’m still holding her hand. I turn to face her, taking her other hand in mine. "This is our place. Not mine. Ours. I don’t want you to be fine. I want you to be good. More than good. Bloody good. And if you don’t like this place like I do, then we’ll keep looking until we find something that fits us both. For better or worse, we’ve got a few years ahead of us, and I’m not going to make you miserable. I’ll do whatever I can to make you happy. You’ve given me so much, it’s the least I can do."

Her eyes are shiny with tears and her mouth quivers into a tight smile.

"But," I add, "I think you’re going to love this place."

The moment she sets foot inside, her demeanor changes. "Look at this!" She points to the built-in desk with slate blue cabinets, nestled into an archway alcove in the living room. "It’s got arches! It’s not all white!"

She wanders from room to room, pointing out all the things she likes. "Wood floors that aren’t gray. I mean those look nice and all, but there’s no warmth. This place feels warm. Ooooh, look out the window! Isn’t that the cutest little bench? I can’t wait to sit outside and read a book. Oh! A balcony! A loft!"

I have to laugh, following her throughout the space. She opens every door, peers in every cabinet. "Sunny has so many windows to look out of. He’s going to love it here."

Apparently, the Sundance the Cat seal of approval is all we need. It takes less than ten minutes for Ophelia to ask for the paperwork to sign. I didn’t even tell her I was planning on putting her eyesore of a couch in the loft. She still thinks it’s going to go to the bin.

One hour later, we’re back in our future home, taking measurements. It’s ours for the next twelve months.

At least that’s one contract signed.

The apartment is available now, and the management company is eager to have tenants. If possible, we’d be able to move our stuff in tomorrow. It’s not possible, but perhaps by next week. Certainly before the end of November, which is good because there’s a fitness center for me to use when it’s too cold to run outside.

"Okay, well the back bedroom seems a tiny bit smaller than the front one, but the back one has the bathroom in it. The front one has the bathroom that guests would use." Ophelia’s walking back and forth between the two rooms.

"Alright." I’m not sure what her point is.

"You should have the bigger room, but it has the less desirable bathroom. The en suite really is better, but I think that room is a tad smaller. But the closet’s bigger."

She’s putting a lot of thought into this.

"It doesn’t matter to me. Which one do you want?" I couldn’t care less in all reality.

"I want you to have the better bathroom and closet. You shouldn’t have to share your space with guests. Oh, and we’ll probably need to have a code or policy or something for guests. I mean, for me it’ll just be Marley, but if you want to bring someone back here, I can make myself scarce. You know, leave a sock on the doorknob like in college."

My head spins at the abrupt change in her thoughts. Barely able to keep up, all I manage to say is, "I didn’t go to uni."

I’ve no idea why that was my response. It’s neither here nor there, and it has nothing to do with the fact that she thinks I’ll be bringing ladies back here to entertain in our home.

There’s only one woman I want, and she’s already here.

That realization hits me like a ton of bricks as I stare at said woman.

"Oh, well, you see, in college when you’re sharing a room, and one roommate is having, you know, sexy time, they leave a sock on the doorknob or some other signal so the other roommate knows not to go in."

While I actually do understand the concept, as I’ve roomed with plenty of blokes during the junior leagues, I still can’t form words realizing that she just said sexy time, and now that’s what I’m imagining.

With her.

"Right. Understood. I don’t think that’ll be an issue. We’re married so, at least for the sake of public appearance, we probably shouldn’t have anyone gallivanting in or out or selling stories to the internet." Then I add, "Should we have Tony put something in the NDA about it? If I can ever get ahold of him, that is."

"It’s not already in there? I assumed you’d have an entire paragraph about it. It was hard to read that draft on my phone. To be perfectly honest, I skimmed it. I just figured …"

I shrug. "Honestly, me too. I’m not sure if it’s in there one way or another. But we do want to keep this between us." Then I add quickly, "For appearance’s sake."

Her lips, ones that I can still practically taste, part. "But … but what about sexy times? How are we going to have that?"

Her use of the word we practically sends me over the edge. My toes grip in my trainers in an attempt to keep me from moving. Every muscle in my body contracts to keep me from taking a step toward her, and then another and another until only inches part us. The desire to touch her overwhelms me. I can practically feel my finger tracing a light line from the back of her hand, up her arm, dancing over her neck, until it rests at the corner of her jaw.

Instead of touching her, as I’m desperate to do, I clench my jaw so tightly it might shatter. As immobile as I am, my mind continues to run away. It imagines her reaction if I were to say to her, "I’m sure we can figure something out."

I can practically see her swallow in response to those words, those delicious lips opening and closing ever so slightly. Her pupils would be wide and dark, the blue of her irises barely visible.

"Xavier, are you okay? I’m sorry I brought it up. We … we can figure out those details later. If you don’t mind, I’ll take the front room, since it’s obviously more of the guest room."

I blink and shake my head. Heavens, I’ve got to get a proper grip on myself. I don’t know where these feelings are coming from. Regardless, I cannot act on them. Ever.

That would be right terrible for Ophelia, knowing she’s stuck here with me, and I’m having all these thoughts about her. No, it wouldn’t do at all for her to find out.

I can’t have her thinking I’m prowling on her, or that she has to reciprocate because we’re married. I want her to feel safe and secure around me, not like this is a con or a bait and switch. It would probably make her feel very uneasy to know that she was sharing space with someone thinking about all the things he wants to do to her body.

I might have to wank in the shower every day for the next three years—or however long this marriage has to last—but I’ll never tell her. She needs to feel—and be–safe in her own home, and I’ll make sure she is.

Even if it’s keeping her safe from me.

"Okay, well, I doubt I can book movers tonight, but I’ll work on it first thing in the morning. What furniture do you have and what do you want of mine? I know, the couch is a no-go."

"Actually," I say, glad to have something else to focus on, "I think your couch will work perfectly in the loft. It’s your office up there, and there’s plenty of room for your desk and that monstrosity."

This time, her lips actually do part, open for a moment in disbelief, before she breaks into a wide grin. Then, out of nowhere, she launches herself at me. Before I know it, her arms are around my neck, squeezing tight as her legs wrap around my waist.

"Xavier Henry, you are without a doubt the sweetest man ever."

I don’t know what I should be doing with my hands, but it seems only natural to support under her thighs. She pulls her head back and says, "I thought I was giving up everything. But you—you knew that, didn’t you? And you found this place for me. The blue cabinets, the archway, the balcony, and the loft. The loft is just for my couch, isn’t it?"

I can only hold my breath and nod in affirmation, her face now just inches from mine, as I’d been fantasizing about only moments ago. I swear I feel her legs tighten around me, her pelvis tilting in and her body pressing into my own. I must be imagining this, right?

"Xavier, I can’t even. I could totally kiss you right now."

I have two choices. I can put her down and put some much-needed distance between our bodies before I cross a line that can’t be uncrossed.

Or, I can march defiantly across that line by claiming her mouth as my own.

But actually, option three wins as my cell phone rings. Quite unwillingly, my hands leave her thighs, and she slides down my body.

Fuck.

I turn away so she can’t see my bloody arousal as I retrieve my phone to answer it.

It’d better be Tony.

Except it’s not.

It’s worse.

Much worse.