Baiting Him (How to Catch an Alpha #2)(13)

“Night,” I tell his back as he turns to leave.

As soon as he passes the threshold, I shut the door and lock the three locks. I’m pretty sure I hear him laughing through the door. It would be embarrassing if he knew just how much he affects me. I go to the kitchen and grab my empty wineglass and pour the rest of the bottle into it as I look around. The kitchen is spotless. Surprisingly, he didn’t just cook; he cleaned as he went, so after we both ate, only the pans, our plates, and the silverware were left to place in the dishwasher, and he did that too before starting it.

With a slight shake of my head and a smile on my lips that I can’t control, I take my wine with me to the living room and turn out the lights there, leaving only the moonlight outside to help guide me to my bedroom.

I flip on my bedroom light and then get undressed, tossing my clothes toward the hamper, not even checking to see if they make it in. Sipping wine, I go through my normal routine. I take off my makeup, put on my nightly face mask, and start up the bath, even though I already had a shower.

Since I can remember, I’ve taken a bath every night except when I was away at school—because first, I shared a bathroom with three other girls, and second, the bathtub was just big enough to stand in. But as soon as I moved back home, my routine fell right back into place, and every night like clockwork, I soak in the tub and let the warm water and my magical bath salts erase the day. After the bath is full, I drop in two scoops of my lavender vanilla bath salts and climb in with my glass of wine.

Between the hot water and the alcohol, by the time I get out and dried off, I’m completely relaxed. I don’t bother getting dressed like normal; I shut off the light and drop face-first into my bed, falling asleep even before I have time to overthink dinner with Mom and spending time with Gaston tomorrow night.





Suggestion 5

OPEN UP A LITTLE AND SEE WHAT HAPPENS

CHRISSIE

I flip the sign on the door to my shop to CLOSED and then scan the space, checking to make sure all the lights are off before I step outside to lock up. I lace my keys in my hand, turning them into a weapon out of habit. It’s a move I was taught during a self-defense class my dad forced me to take before I left for New York. Not that it’s necessary here. Crime is almost nonexistent in this area. The streets are well lit, and even now, there are lots of people around. Some are shopping at small boutiques, while others are at the restaurants and bars that line the block.

I walk down the sidewalk toward my car, feeling like I always do after a long day—completely and utterly exhausted. I really should look into hiring someone full time to either open the shop in the mornings or to close it in the evenings, but I’m just always too worried about my bottom line to bite that bullet.

Things at the Sweet Spot have been good, really good. My business is growing steadily, and I’m constantly getting new customers. But the minuscule line between being in the black versus in the red could change at the drop of a hat, and that line makes me uneasy.

With a tired sigh, I get into my car, program the restaurant I’m meeting my mom at into my GPS, and take off toward my destination. Ten minutes into the fifteen-minute drive, I stop at a red light and yawn for the third time in a row. If I’m going to make it through dinner and then see Gaston tonight, I’m going to have to break one of my rules and have a Coke with dinner.

I spot my mom sitting on one of the benches just outside the door of the restaurant when I arrive, and she waves when she sees me. I wave back, then search the almost-full lot for a place to park and by a miracle manage to find a spot. As soon as I get out of my car, my mom greets me with a hug, and like always, the moment her arms wrap around me, my entire body relaxes. Even at my age, I can’t deny the healing power of one of my mom’s hugs.

“I’ve missed you,” she tells me as she tightens her arms around me.

“It’s been a week, Mom.” I sigh like a put-out teenager without loosening my hold or letting her go.

She laughs, then leans back enough to look at my face. “You look tired.”

“Thanks.” I roll my eyes.

“You’re still beautiful, honey. You just look like you haven’t slept much.”

I can’t say the same about her. Even with everything that has happened, she is beautiful, with hardly any wrinkles, thanks to the facial routine she passed down to me. She has dark-auburn hair that’s still shiny and full and a body that’s trim because of yoga and swimming five days a week. She didn’t let herself go after being married and having kids, which makes me wonder why my dad felt the need to stray. I’ve never met the woman he married—haven’t even looked her up on social media—and I don’t know that I want to. Still, a part of me is curious about her. A part of me wants to understand what happened and to see who he left my mom for after so many years of seeming happy.

“Can we go eat and not talk about how tired I look?”

“Absolutely.” She takes my hand and leads me toward the restaurant.

The place is busy, but thankfully there are still a few tables available. We’re seated immediately, and right away I order a Coke, while my mom orders water. Since we both know what we want to eat after looking at the menu briefly, we give the waitress our dinner orders as well, and she tells us she’ll be right back with our drinks before she walks away.

“You never drink soda this late,” she says, unrolling her utensils and placing her napkin in her lap.