99 Percent Mine(95)

“Like I’ve got everything I want, if I have you.” I make sure he understands me. “I love you so much.”

He’s restless now, trying to work out how to convince me. “It’s so hard to spoil someone who doesn’t want to be spoiled.”

“You spoil me every night.”

I put my fingers on the buckle of his belt. His bottom lip drops open in surprise and I bite it. His hand tries to interfere, tightening on mine, but I just keep running my fingernail on the metal. It seems to be a conduit to some raw place of lust for him, because he can barely tolerate it.

“You really want me to choose a house.”

“Yes, please.” He sounds completely desperate. I look around the room. It’s still waiting for a wall to be moved and the cornicing is hideous, but the light shines in so pleasingly and I like the hedge of lavender humming with bees.

I think how much I love him, and the next big way I can prove it.

“This house,” I finally allow myself to say. They’re words I’ve held in for weeks now. The decision feels like a key in a lock. “This is our house.” I’ve got my hand on his jaw, tilting up his face just to look at his surprise. “Location, size, that lighting in the bathroom. Put me in that bedroom and never let me out.”

“This is the one? You sure?” He pauses, a new thought giving him pleasure. “This is the threshold I’m gonna carry you over?” There’s a flare in his eyes; that animal inside him wants nothing more than to add a second ring of gold on to my hand.

“Yeah,” I assure him, bracing for the kiss that I know is coming. It’s going to be something intense, with all of his heart and excitement in it. Finally, Tom Valeska can stop being that boy, locked out in the dark, waiting to be found. When he starts work again, it’s going to be a new experience for him. It’s going to be something he’s never felt before, and I’m so glad I’ve given this to him now.

This house? It’s Tom Valeska’s house. It’s Darcy Barrett’s house.

Holy shit, I’m living my own dream come true.

He’s gathering me up now in both hands, ignoring the sound of car doors slamming outside and boots approaching. They’re going to catch us kissing, but that’s happened a hundred times before, and besides, this is monumental. Professionalism be damned; Darcy Barrett and Tom Valeska now have a home.

He tips my head back, ready to show me how happy he is.

“You know I’ll love you even if you make me live in a tent for the rest of my life. Are you really sure?”

“So sure.” I close my eyes, and his mouth is on mine, and we are happy. It’s just as simple as that.





The Hating Game Epilogue

It’s a red dress kind of day.

It’s Friday afternoon. I’m sitting in my office at Bexley & Gamin and I can see my reflection in my floor-to-ceiling window. Outwardly I look remarkably corporate, but on the inside I’m forever an immature little weirdo. I cross my legs and begin to play the Mirror Game with myself. The Staring Game. Even a whispered How You Doing Game. It’s just not the same without my opponent.

It’s been a shitty day. I spent the afternoon fighting a valiant battle against Mr. Bexley over electronic distribution royalties, and then I found out that there’s a bug in our latest e-library app. I’m so tired I can feel my own skeleton. I need to be lying on my perfect couch but it’s not going to happen tonight. It’s so quiet I can hear the fluorescent tubes buzzing.

The elevator bings.

Whoever’s just arrived on the tenth floor needs to be kept out of my office so I can get the hell out of here. Scott, our executive officer, is a pretty good gatekeeper. I can hear muffled conversation, and then there’s a rap on the door. There’s only one person in the world who can put so much short, sharp love into a single knock.

“Come in,” I say. The door swings open and there he is.

Joshua Templeman is dressed in black. Everything, from his underwear to his cufflinks to his tie, is ink-black midnight. He enjoys the drama of it on a Friday, sliding into people’s office doorways like Dracula just as they’re loosening their ties and thinking about their weekends. All he needs is some devil horns and a pitchfork. I feel vaguely bad for whoever he’s been terrorizing today.

He leans against the doorjamb and we’re playing the Staring Game for a minute until his dark navy eyes spark. “Shortcake,” he breathes like he can’t believe I’m real. “I missed you so bad.”

My. Heart. Bursts.

I stand up and go to him. He picks me up off the ground, kissing my jaw, my cheekbones, his fingers stroking my nape. He turns me in a circle and I cross my ankles prettily. The tiredness falls out through my feet and dissolves.

He’s here, and I’m lit up. It’s the kind of light that never fades.

People in the opposite building might be able to see us. Motorists at the traffic lights below can probably make out the silhouette of a ridiculously large man twirling around a ridiculously small woman. During one slow revolution I catch sight of Helene and Mr. Bexley, standing near Scott’s desk. They’re all looking at us like we’re the most gorgeously silly couple in the world. It’s accurate. We are.

Helene glances at Mr. Bexley with a wry expression, and I swear I see a little moment of connection between them. I’ve been suspecting it more and more. I know love-hate when I see it.