Reparation (The Kane Trilogy, #3)(48)

And things really hadn't changed. They fu-cked all weekend, making up for lost time. Sanders was scarred on more than one occasion, by walking into the wrong room at the wrong time. Jameson still called her filthy names, and she still loved it. Still treated her to heavy hands, and she loved that even more. But best of all, when he did say something nice, it didn't hurt. It didn't scar. It just folded in with the rest.

Finally.

“I bought something,” he said Sunday afternoon, striding into his library.

She was back to laying on the floor, stretched on her stomach. There had been an “incident” with the couch. It had gotten flipped over and a leg broke off. It was being repaired. Jameson told her she had to be more careful in the future – his shit wasn't cheap. She told him that maybe he shouldn't go around fu-cking people so hard. He told her to shut her mouth. It just went uphill from there, and then they broke his desk chair.

She had laughed a lot.

“What is it?” she asked warily, sitting up and taking a box he held out towards her.

She recognized it instantly. A vintage Cartier necklace, mostly pearls and diamonds. Purchased by an anonymous buyer over a phone.

“Got it at some stupid auction,” he commented, sitting in his wing back chair. “Don't know why. Waste of money. For some charity function.”

She wanted to cry, but she was trying to make it a habit not to do that anymore. So she game him a blowjob instead. Was practically of equal value, she was sure.

But Sunday evening, he got a phone call. They were still in the library, so she was there when he got it. Something about his offices in Germany. She heard everything, he tried to get out of going. Had even offered to send Sanders in his place. But he was needed. He had to go – it was easy to forget, but he did have obligations. He had to go to Berlin.

Of course, a panic attack was the first thing on her mind. But then she calmed down. Saying “hey, I'm kinda sorta in love with you, you sadistic bastard” was kind of like making a deal. She had to trust him, to a certain extent. So she just smiled and told him to come home soon. He tried to talk her into going with him, but she told him she wouldn't go for all the tea in China. fu-ck that. Letting him go was baby steps. He would have to wait for the giant leaps.

She requested that Sanders stay behind, though, which made everyone happier. Sanders didn't like going to Germany. Jameson didn't like leaving Tate alone. Tate didn't particularly like being alone. So it all worked out.

It really wasn't so bad. That's what she kept telling herself. She tried to ignore the fact that the last time she had confessed her feelings to him, he had run away to Berlin. Awfully big coincidence. But it was just that, it had to be – she would have to trust that it was, trust him. So she did her best.

“What should we do without him?” she asked when Sanders finally came home.

“Same thing we usually do when he is not at home,” he replied, walking into the kitchen.

“I'm not making brownies. You called me fat a couple weeks ago,” she reminded him.

“You made me angry. I was provoked into saying that.”

“I didn't provoke shit. You were being a brat.”

“Though technically, you are a couple pounds overweight for your height.”

“Shut up! I am not!”

“Well, a couple more pounds, and you will be.”

“I WILL NOT!”

She laughed and threw flour all over him. A small baking fight ensued. Something about Sanders being messy just did her in. Perfect, pristine Sanders, coated in baking soda and canola oil, made her laugh endlessly. Even when she slipped in the oil and fell onto her back. Even when he dumped an entire ten pound bag of sugar on her. She couldn't stop. He finally pulled her up and dragged her to the bathroom, where he pushed her – fully clothed – into the shower. She shrieked when the cold water hit her.

“I am not amused,” was all he said before he stomped out of the room.

But he came back, clean and showered. He changed into pajamas and they enjoyed brownies while they watched a movie in the sitting room. She lamented about cleaning the kitchen, but he told her he would have a cleaning service come take care of it in the morning.

“Sandy, does Jameson know you have spooned with me? Multiple times?” she asked, shoving almost a whole brownie into her mouth.

“Yes. I tell him everything.”

“He doesn't mind?”

“No. Why should he?” Sanders asked, not taking his eyes off the television screen.

“He hates it when I so much as smile at Ang,” she pointed out.

“Mr. Hollingsworth is a threat. I am not,” Sanders pointed out. She nodded.

“Fair enough.”

They woke up the next morning, still on the couch. She was stretched across his chest, drooling. Attractive. He hid his disgust well when they got up, but she still laughed. Then he cooked them breakfast and they ate it outside, shivering in their pajamas. She found herself thinking that some of her happiest moments in life had been spent doing absolutely nothing with Sanders.

“Should I call him?” Tate asked, jumping up and down in the middle of Jameson's bed. Sanders stood in the doorway.

“If you want to,” he replied.

“Of course I want to. But I've never really called him before,” she told him.