Tragic Beauty (Beauty & The Darkness #1)(10)
He leaves without a glance and disappears through double doors at the end of the hall that must lead to the master.
I turn back to the room and walk inside. My shoes come off first and the soft grey carpet feels like heaven under my feet. I slide my fingers across the smooth finish of the desk, and over the shiny charcoal bedspread.
Slowly, I make my way into the bathroom and freeze, staring at the reflection in the mirror. I know around me is striking black marble, and silvery stone, and a glass shower off to the side, but all I see is a girl with wet hair in a slutty dress, staring back at me through puffy blue eyes. I was right about the mascara.
I turn around and peek into the bedroom, and see he still hasn’t returned, so I shut the door and start the shower. My dress is soaked through and I have to peel it off like a second skin. When I step into the warm water, coming at me through three different shower heads, the numbness turns to a tingle and the cold begins to melt away. I close my eyes and can’t help but think of Gavin. The way he carried me like I weighed nothing. The way his deep voice rumbled in the car. The way the shirt stuck to him in the rain. I grab the soap and run my hands over my body, wishing they were his hands. I’ve never thought this way about a man before. Maybe because I’ve never met anyone like Gavin. I dip my head under the water, wondering if maybe things might turn out okay after all.
A little while later, I feel like myself again, my face clean and my hair hanging straight and dry around my shoulders, thanks to a hair dryer I found under the sink. I peek through the door, and see a grey Metallica t-shirt and a pair of black sweatpants on the bed. The main door to the room is closed, so I walk out in my towel and when I reach the bed, I notice the pants look freshly cut at the bottom, to fit me. It’s a simple gesture, but somehow feels like so much more. I take the t-shirt and press it against my face. It’s soft and smells like fabric softener. I breathe in deep, trying to guess the scent. Fresh linen maybe.
After I’m dressed, I open the door and peer into the hallway. It’s quiet, until I hear some clanking from downstairs. I follow the noise, down the metal staircase, and past the living room, until I stop and turn back. I stand there, staring at a low, glass fireplace that extends the entire length of the wall. I know there’s a sleek grey sectional in front of it, and a coffee table made of shattered glass, and even a view beyond the wall of sliders, but all I can do is stare at the fire—the whole length of the wall. I’m still staring when another clank sounds from down the hall, reminding me of where I was headed.
I start walking again, and turn a corner to find myself in the kitchen. I stop when I see Gavin standing at the stove, barefoot, dressed in grey sweats that hang off his hips and a white t-shirt that hugs his frame. My eyes can’t help but linger on the way the fabric stretches across his chest.
He looks at me, his gaze lingering on my face, then he blinks a couple times and turns back to the stove. “Better,” he says. I guess it’s a compliment, but the sullen tone of his voice has me not so sure.
I move to the countertop and take a seat opposite on one of the stools, then glance around at the dark lacquer cabinets, the white granite countertops, the stainless steel appliances that look more suited to a restaurant than a private home. It’s all so luxurious. I knew people lived like this, but seeing it in person, being around it, feels intimidating.
My eyes move to Gavin again. His hair is freshly wet, as though he just showered too, but it’s starting to dry. And while his hair had looked almost black before, under the recessed lighting, I can see it’s really a dark brown with bits of amber and gold. I watch part of it fall across his forehead, but he swipes it back, and shoots me a glance. “Hope you like mac ‘n’ cheese, cause that’s what you’re getting.”
I nod, and notice the familiar Kraft box sitting on the counter, for which I’m grateful. It’s a favorite. Strange though, it seems out of place in this kitchen.
His eyes drift to me again while he stirs the pasta, and I look away, feeling awkward. Here I am, with a stranger for the most part, in a strange house, miles away from home. I hadn’t planned on this. Meeting someone in a nightclub and going to a hotel, or even the backseat of a car was all I had envisioned. Nothing so intimate. Nothing so personal.
“So,” he says, “you want to tell me where you were headed in that…dress?”
I shake my head, and look down at the counter.
“Were you meeting someone?” he asks.
The tightness in his voice, brings my eyes up. I don’t want to answer, but I don’t want to be rude. So I say, “I just…wanted a night out.”
He turns away and grabs a strainer from a cupboard and places it in the sink. “You’re being vague,” he snaps, giving me a glare as he steps back to the stove.
I can’t tell him the truth, so I say nothing.
He moves back to the sink and pours the pasta into the strainer, and I watch his biceps flex while he does it, watch the way the fabric stretches tight around his arms. I’m still watching when he places the noodles back in the pot and adds the cheese, milk, and butter.
I look back down at the counter and begin tracing one of the gold veins in the granite to help distract me. My body feels tingly again.
A moment later he places a bowl of warm mac ‘n’ cheese and a spoon in front of me, then leans against the counter, a bowl in hand, and begins eating on his feet.