Truly Madly Deeply: Chapter 52

I hated running.

Or any other type of cardio that didn’t involve Cal’s legs wrapped around my waist, to be honest. I didn’t need a workout. I worked a physical job, hurling a shit ton of food crates from one place to the other, chopping, slicing, tossing, flipping, glazing, grating, all in a kitchen of about thirty thousand degrees.

I needed this morning run with Cal like I needed a second tailbone.

Only reason I did it was so I could have an excuse to spend one-on-one time with her. My patience and virtue had paid off, because this morning, I’d had my dick inside her mouth and my pinky up her ass. Blood rushed to my dick just thinking about the things I was going to do to this woman. I was going to live inside that pussy every waking moment until I had to pay fucking rent.

Too bad now that I’d had a taste, there was no way I was ever going to settle for just another meaningless, faceless hookup. She was exquisite, and she was all fucking mine.

“You look happy.” Rhy eyed me accusingly when I walked into my upstairs office at Descartes, his pen still hovering over his bookkeeping ledger.

“Is that a crime?” I slid a bottle of beer across the desk and took a pull of mine. We opened service in two hours, which meant that Cal wouldn’t be here for another hour and a half. Not that I was keeping tabs or anything.

“Depends on what lifted your mood.” Rhy sipped his beer, lounging back. “Is Kieran dead?”

“Alive as far as I know, much to my chagrin.” I fell into the chair opposite him, crossing my ankles over the desk—and his ledger. “How’re the numbers lookin’?”

“Great. Insane profit margin. But selling the land was the right thing. This place is fucking toxic after the bullshit Allison pulled on us.”

If I’m selling. I’d been blue-balling Tate Blackthorn for weeks now. It was like ignoring a tumorous growth, though. I needed to sign on the dotted line if I wanted him to release the funds for my new restaurant and the new mortgages I’d taken on. Blackthorn was right—I was in no position to fuck around and find out.

“Toxicity is where I thrive, so no complaints there.” I shrugged.

“Don’t change the subject. What’s with the perpetual smile?” Rhy frowned. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain green-haired girl, would it?”

“Her tips are red now,” I informed him. “And I don’t kiss and tell.”

“You don’t have to. Your dumbass smile told me the entire story, including the graphic details. Shit, dude, the ass too?” He uncrossed his legs and put them down.

I stomped his foot under the desk, and he let out an agonized yelp. “Watch your mouth when you talk about this woman.” How could I let her walk away? More importantly, how could I make sure she didn’t run off? Calla was so good at running off.

“Does she know how you feel yet?” Rhy accepted his beer, tipping it over his lips and taking a big drink.

Hard no. If she knew how I felt, she’d sprint to the fucking hills. She loved New York. Loved her independence. Loved being alone.

Any hope I entertained about her developing feelings for me in the process was bound to kill me faster than the smoking habit she hated so much.

There was a knock on the office door. He pushed up to his feet, downing the beer and slam-dunking it into the trash.

“Pissed off with this town? Yeah,” I said.

“In love with every cell in her body.” He advanced toward the door.

“I’m not in love with her,” I murmured into my drink.

Rhyland stopped with his hand on the doorknob, cocking a brow. “Cut the bullshit. What are you, five?” Another, sterner knock. “Just remember she has ten tons of baggage. Her anxiety issues always stand in her way, and I doubt she can form any sort of serious relationship with anyone, even you.”

“What the hell does that mean, even me?”

“Even someone who’d accept her exactly as she is—flawed to the core—and won’t ask her to change.”

Damn straight. Her flaws were some of her best features. Protective anger simmered inside of me. I was about to give him a piece of my mind when he opened the door. Kieran stood on the other side.

The universe must’ve picked up on my good mood and decided to shit all over it. The bastard waltzed in, looking like a trillion bucks with his stupid peacoat and even stupider smile, and a nose that—unbelievably—did make him look more ruggedly handsome. Young Clint Eastwood looked like a dumpster fire next to Fuckface.

“Hey, man.” Rhy and Kieran exchanged a handshake and a bro hug. “I’ll leave you two to kill each other.” Rhy exited the office. I kicked the floor to turn around on my executive chair, narrowing my eyes at Rhy as he added, “Just watch the carpet. Been meaning to take it with me to New York when we close this place up.”

“Fuckface,” I said.

“Asshole,” Kieran replied.

“What heinous crime have I committed in a previous life to deserve this social call?” I picked up a cigarette, rolling it between my fingers.

“Don’t be so humble. I’m sure current-life you is on karma’s shit list too.” Kieran strode in, debonair and cocky—as a man who earned a hundred million pounds a year should be. “Apology accepted, by the way.”

“Apology not issued.” I tucked the cigarette behind my ear. “Do I need to call security, or do you want me to kick you out myself?”

He sauntered deeper into the room, over to the drink cart behind my desk, fixing himself a whiskey. I’d never seen Kieran Carmichael drink. He always struck me as a Patrick Bateman type. Someone who was too busy shoving decapitated heads into freezers to have a stiff one with a buddy. So this gave me pause.

“You should be thanking me, you know. My fake-kissing Cal snowballed into your hookup.” He poured himself two fingers of Hibiki, then raised the glass to his lips. “Had to give Lady Faith a little push. Neither of you had the balls to make the first move.”

“And you know Cal and I are together because…?” I tilted an eyebrow.

“She left me a three thousand–word text message relaying your entire night together, lip gloss flavor included.” He sipped his drink calmly.

“She didn’t,” I said, even though it sounded exactly like something Cal would do.

“Prime reading material, highly recommended,” he continued, picking up random shit on my desk, snooping in my stuff. “Probably wanted to send it to Dylan.”

Classic Cal move. For a moment, I allowed myself to imagine what life with her would be like. A ton of trips to the ER, foot-in-mouth scenarios, and spontaneous sex in exotic places. I’d sign on for this kind of life in a goddamn heartbeat.

“Now that you know she’s not up for grabs, stay the fuck away.” I itched to stand up and assert my power but also didn’t want him to see how territorial I was over Cal. She was a weakness, a blind side, a cruel reminder of my mortality.

“Trust me, Casablancas, there’s nothing I’d like more than to ignore your meaningless existence.” He finally propped against the doorjamb, looking bored with the entire situation. “Unfortunately, I can’t do that.”

“Because?” I rose up to my feet, treading toward him until we were face-to-face.

“First of all, I hear we’ll be neighbors next year. You’re moving to London.”

“London’s big, and my hate for you is even more infinite. Don’t worry, I won’t knock on your door asking for sugar.”

“Good. That shit’s toxic and I don’t consume it.” He plucked the cigarette from behind my ear, snapped it in two, and tossed it into the garbage. When Cal and Dylan weren’t around, he really let his real, asshole self come out. Strangely, I felt more comfortable with this version of him. The one that was mean to me growing up. At least I knew what I was dealing with.

“See, I needed to give you a good excuse to punch the daylights out of me yesterday,” he said, a grin spreading across his lips.

“Because of what happened when we were kids?”

“No, because I’m about to hit on your sister, whether you like it or not.”

I was torn between dislocating his nose again and fist-pumping the air.

He wanted Dylan? Was he fucking insane? I loved my sister, but she was a headache. Unruly, fiercely independent, mouthy as all hell, and impossible to manage. She was the hard to Cal’s softness. The ruthlessly bossy to her soft quirkiness. I was the first to like a challenge, but Dylan wasn’t a challenge. She was a Squid Game obstacle course that ended with you speared to a wall by rusty metal spikes. Plus, I knew she’d never go for a guy like him. He was too smooth around the edges, too well-mannered, too rich. Dylan would never go with the obvious choice. Her favorite ice cream flavor was butter pecan.

“She is engaged and pregnant,” I pointed out.

“And he is absent and stupid,” Kieran deadpanned, in the same businesslike, flat tone. “I remember Tucker Reid. He used to burn insects with a magnifying glass and wedgie your sister. She deserves better.”

“Agreed, but that applies to you too.” I pulled at his ridiculously ironed shirt. “You were a shit kid, who spent every waking moment reminding me that I was the poor son of an alcoholic.”

“Are you ever going to let the past go?”

“Why would I? The past tells us a lot about what we should expect from the future.”

“Ever wonder why I was the way I was?” he snapped, growling at me. “I was cruel because I was weak. My dad rode my ass six ways from Sunday about soccer, about becoming a star, being drafted to a European team in my teens. We weren’t as rich as you probably thought we were, and most of the money was poured into my sport anyway. I was under an immense amount of pressure. And there you were—popular, hot shit, straight-A student, and already interning at a Michelin-starred restaurant outside of town. You had it easy. Or at least, your nightmare wasn’t as elaborate as mine. Nobody put all their chips on you. Nobody told you that if you didn’t make it, your family would fall apart.”

He was jealous of me? Hadn’t seen that one coming.

“Yeah, life was just a piece of fucking cake,” I snarled.

“My dumb teenage self thought so.”

“So what, you want my forgiveness now?”

“No offense, but I really couldn’t give two shits about whether you forgive me or not. I want your understanding.” He pushed off the wall. “Mostly, I want you to be out of my fucking way when I court your sister. Because let me tell you—if I don’t get around you, you bet your ass I’ll get through you. Understand?”

My nostrils flared, and I stepped forward. Our pecs bumped into one another. “You have some nerve coming into my establishment, running your mouth like you deserve anything more than another sucker punch.”

Kieran met my gaze head-on. “I’ll allow you one more punch to get it out of your system. After that, I’m throwing fists too.”

It had been a long time coming. My entire adolescence, I’d wanted to beat the crap out of him.

I sent a knockout punch right into his abs. He folded, staggering backward, bracing himself against my desk. He pushed off the furniture, barreling into my side, tackling me with his shoulder to the floor.

“For fuck’s sake, Casablancas.” He planted a knee on my rib cage to paralyze me, grabbing me by the jaw and squeezing until it almost snapped. Shit, he was strong. And I was rusty, having avoided bar brawls since I’d gotten famous and my lawyers had told me each altercation was a potential seven-figure settlement deal.

“How long have you had a thing for her?” I caught his wrist and bent it, forcing him to follow my movement and flipping us so I was on top.

“Since I came back. I never paid attention to her before.” He pounced up, grabbing my neck and putting me in a headlock. We kicked and thrashed, each trying to get on top of the other.

“Is this a fucking pregnancy kink?” I growled. “You sick fuck.”

He plowed a sucker punch straight to my jaw. “Don’t reduce her to a fucking kink, you son of a—”

“Don’t complete that sentence.”

“Right. Zeta birthed my favorite human in the world. Better not.”

For whatever reason, I believed that he genuinely liked my sister. But that didn’t stop my fist from connecting with his mouth. His lower lip popped, blood running down his chin and neck.

“Goddammit. This is the second Givenchy coat you’ve ruined.”

“Stop being so damn punchable, and I’ll stop punching you.”

We were on the floor, bloodied and flushed, when I heard a knock on the door.

“Busy. Fuck off!” I snarled, trying to scratch Kieran’s eyes out.

“Fine, but we’ll have a real conversation about your attitude next time I see you!” I heard Cal on the other side.

“No. Wait.” I dumped Kieran’s limp body on the floor, scrambling up to my feet, stumbling to the door. “Wait. Don’t go.”

Kieran lay on the floor, shaking his head and chuckling.

I threw the door open. Cal’s big blue eyes flared at the sight of my beaten-up face. She peered over my shoulder, catching a glimpse of Fuckface lying in a pool of his own blood. Her mouth slacked.

“Don’t worry, Cal. This was a therapeutic session.” Kieran gave her a little wave behind me. “Everything is under control.”

“Completely consensual.” I forced out a grin. Shit, he had given me a black eye. I could feel it swelling. “Need anything, baby?”

I was calling her baby now, while my dick wasn’t shoved in one of her holes. Rhy was right: I was a goner, and the place I was headed to was right into a deep depression when she bailed on my ass.

“Hmm, I came in early to help Rhyland do some filing…” She trailed off, still looking unsure. “And ended up scrubbing puke off the toilet floor because Katie has food poisoning. Been doing that for thirty minutes.”

Who the fuck was Katie?

“Your maître d’.” Cal frowned, as if reading my thoughts. “She’s been working here since the day you opened.” Eh.

“Poor Dot.” I tugged her by the shirt, wrapping her in a hug. “Next time let me know and I’ll send someone else to clean that up.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” She frowned.

“Never been better.”

“Cool. So…whose dick do I have to suck to get a margarita around here?” She sniffled into my shirt.

Kieran and I answered in unison.

“Mine,” I growled.

“His.” He swallowed. He scraped himself off my floor, limping his way past my door while keeping his distance from Cal. He was bleeding all over my engineered hardwood. “See you later, folks. Enjoy one another.”

Maybe Fuckface wasn’t so bad after all.