Depths (12 page)

I should be curled up next to Jason. I didn’t even check to make sure he was covered or that he had a pillow before I climbed into this big king bed, ten thousand times more comfortable than my tiny twin. Cohen went ahead and checked on Ally, and she’s a perfect stranger to him. What kind of girlfriend does it make me if I didn’t take basic care of my boyfriend? Because, if I’m being honest, I don’t really care.

I don’t.

Why am I even with him? At this point it’s more a bad habit I’m too far in to break. Jason has been around through so much change in my life, and I guess I’ve been addicted to the fact that he’s the one stable aspect I’ve been able to count on. Not that Jason’s the paradigm of accountability…but he’s there when I call, when I need someone to make me forget the rest of my life, spiraling down the drain so fast, I don’t know what to do about it.

Lord knows my drunk ass father with his shakes and bourbon-laced sweats hasn’t been any kind of anchor. Neither have my tight-ass mother and tighter-assed sister, who spend too much time worrying about the drape of their fondant and the ratio of vanilla to alcohol in their authentic Colombian vanilla extract to spare a second to ask me how I’m doing.

Nope.

I have no anchor at all, and I’d pretty much convinced myself that I liked being adrift. That it was fine to be nowhere and have no one. That traveling from port to port was the way I preferred it, thank you very much.

I could have kept the entire ruse up for a long time if I hadn’t docked in Cohen’s cozy little house, where, suddenly, for no explainable reason, I felt like I belong. I belong, and I never want to leave, goddamnit.

“I belong,” I whisper to the light green walls of his bedroom, the color hidden by shadows but bright in my memory. “I belong here.”

Who cares if it’s crazy talk? Who cares if he hears me? I’m so happy to be telling the truth for the first time in I can’t remember how long, I just don’t give a shit how crazy my words are.

The problem with thinking out loud is that it’s messy. It’s gets your brain all jumbled and hungry. And a hungry brain, at least in my case, always leads to a hungry stomach.

I thought I’d eat a nice hot dog with sauerkraut and mustard at the game, but that never happened. And I’d drunk plenty at Cohen’s house, but there was no eating, so my head is swimmy with hunger, and my stomach growls and twists in knots.

I slide out of his bed, tug down on his shirt so it covers more of my red and pink lace underwear, and pad to the kitchen quietly. Cohen’s kitchen is organized in a masterful way, each thing put in the place where you’d be most likely to look for it. I find what I’m looking for in a few seconds, and there are eggs sizzling on the blue flame of his stove in minutes.

I almost whip the frying pan off the stove to use as a weapon when I hear a throat clear behind me.

But my killer instinct quiets down because it’s just Cohen.

Cohen. The guy who owns this house, this cozy, put-together kitchen, and these eggs sizzling in this pan.

“Cohen.” I put one hand against the white cotton of his shirt and feel his heart leaping under my palm.

“Maren.”

It’s just my name, nothing special, but the word falling from him mouth makes my breath hitch.
Say it again
, my brain screams.
Say it after you kiss me, say it while you’re holding me.

I didn’t think I’d get a second chance to be alone with him after he jumped into the ocean to keep me from going under, and I’d acted like an ass.

Why hadn’t I kissed him when his arms were around me, making me feel safe and warm even in the middle of the dark, crashing ocean waves?

Maybe because the attraction I feel for him is so strong, it’s almost harsh, like heavy grit sandpaper. It grates against my already frayed nerves and makes me feel overexposed.

“I’m sorry.” I use the spatula to point to the eggs, hissing merrily in the pan. “I was so damn hungry. And you had a full dozen. I only cooked…” I look down in the pan and my voice drops to an embarrassed whisper. “Four.”

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, muscles bulging, smile a mile and a half wide. “Four, huh? You bulking up?”

I let my lips curl into a return smile. “Maybe. You don’t know my life, Cohen.”

“Are you a secret cage fighter?” His voice slides up and down my spine like a cube of ice, and I shiver and want more. Now.

“Maybe.” Maybe I press the shirt down at my hips so it’s tight against my breasts and my nipples strain against the thin white fabric, just to see how he’ll react.

Do I imagine the way his pupils grow huge and dark? Well, even if that’s just my imagination running wild, there’s nothing imaginative about the way he rakes his eyes up and down my body.

Usually a hungry look like that would make me uncomfortable, but Cohen’s makes me feel the opposite. I feel like showing off. I turn so my ass is in full view, and I know damn well how good the little bits of lace that barely cover my curves look. I take back every nasty threat I ever hurled Jacinda’s way. I can feel Cohen’s eyes burning on my skin, and that makes the quarter of a paycheck I handed over to Jacinda in return for lots of lacy, sexy lingerie well worth it.

So worth it.

I should be feeling much worse. If we both listen over the sound of the frying eggs, we’d be able to hear Jason snoring. The sound of my boyfriend, no matter how annoying it is, should be enough to shame me into not showing off my ass for Cohen.

But then I think about Ally sprawled on the couch and how she and Jason didn’t even bother to hide their attraction this entire exhausting day.

Well, I’m sick of hiding mine. And I’m more attracted to Cohen than I’ve ever been to anyone before.

“Cage fighting doesn’t seem tough enough for you.” Cohen heads to the fridge, pulls out a loaf of bread, and pops four pieces in the toaster. He comes to my side, standing so he’s just over my shoulder, his body close enough to mine that I feel the heat of his skin at my back.

My breath comes out in quick, heady pants. “So what would be tough enough then?” I ask, turning my head. My hair brushes his jaw, a few pieces getting caught in the scratchy scruff of his five o’clock shadow.

He should take a step back. Social conventions demand that. But he doesn’t. And I’m very, very happy that he doesn’t.

“Tough enough for you?” he asks, wrapping one arm around me and tugging the spatula out of my hand. He loosens the eggs, grabs the pepper mill and wraps both arms around me so he can crush some pepper on the golden yolks, then presses against me as he leans forward and lowers the heat slightly. “Maybe alligator wrestling?” he suggests, his voice low in my ear. “Maybe tightrope walking in the Grand Canyon?”

I laugh and lean back into him, not giving a damn how stupid that might be. He doesn’t back away.

“I think I like the way you picture me,” I say, not moving my hand when his comes around to cup mine.

“If you knew what I was picturing right now,” he says, his voice low and rough, “I guarantee you’d kick me out.”

My heart beats hard and wild in my chest. We’re too close to the stove, to close to the truth, to close to an edge we may fall over and never come back from. I turn slowly, and when he backs away my heart falls.

Until he grabs my hip and pulls me to him.

“I can’t kick you out,” I whisper, my lips shaking and my voice trembling as I walk back out of his grasp. He shadows my every move. “It’s your house. It’s your kitchen.”

He shakes his head, his dark eyes pinning me against the counter as sure as if his hands were still on me. “You can do whatever you want here.”

“Why would you say that?” I ask, and untangle my eyes from his long enough to look down at my curled toes.

“Because something about you makes me want to make you want to stay here. Even if that requires me leaving.” His voice has the slightest lazy slur to it, which is a direct contrast to the steady look in his eyes.

“You’re crazy.” I laugh to make it a joke, but we both know no one’s joking.

His eyes stay locked in my direction, and, just when I’m positive I can’t stand one more second, he paces to the stove, flips the eggs, grabs two plates, slides the toast out of the toaster oven, butters it, and drops the perfectly cooked eggs on top.

“Eat,” he instructs, his voice low and hot, holding the plate toward me.

I take the plate and try not to let him see how much effort I have to put into holding it still as he goes to the other side of the counter.

“Do you know what’s so weird?” I ask as I cut into the firm yellow of my yolk. The first bite is creamy, delicious heaven in my mouth.

The only thing I can imagine wanting in my mouth more is his tongue, and my brain skips and sputters just thinking that thought.

“What’s that?” He watches me as he eats, his eyes hot and focused.

I try not to get sucked into those eyes, but there’s no safe place on him to place my focus. What else can I look at? His broadly muscled shoulders? The bulge of his biceps? His strong hands, deeply tanned and long-fingered? Every new thing I notice about him drives my poor hormones into a serious frenzy.

“You were just a voice on the phone a few hours ago. And now I’m eating eggs in your kitchen and wearing your shirt to bed.”

And imagining doing very, very bad things with you all over your gorgeous house
.

I would blame that train of thought on the drinking, but I’m sobering up more and more by the second, and I know this has nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with finally meeting that certain person you never even realized you’d been waiting for.

He shrugs, and I feel a little prickle of…irritation. It makes no sense, but that doesn’t stop the feeling from surging through me. Why is he shrugging those damn gorgeous shoulders of his?

“What’s the shrug about?” I ask, cutting my eggs with more force than is strictly necessary.

“I guess I don’t think it’s all that weird.” He eats methodically, and I refuse to acknowledge how fantastic his mouth is.

“Really? You don’t think it’s at all odd that we went from only talking on the phone at work to having sleepovers in less than twenty-four hours?” I press.

He eats the last bite of his late-night snack and lays his fork and knife on the side of his plate with cautious neatness. When he looks up, his eyes look more than clear; they look a little furious, and it sucker punches the air right out of my lungs.

“I think a lot of things are weird, but not this.” He runs a hand through his black hair and gets up, his chair scraping loudly on the stone floor. I watch his back while he puts the plates in the sink, and I feel this stupid, stupid urge to run my fingernails up and down that back.

“So, what’s weird according to Cohen Rodriguez then?” I demand.

He turns the water on and squirts dish soap on the plates, then grabs the little blue sponge in his hand. I can see his reflection in the fogging window over the sink, and I notice the way his jaw is set tight before he answers.

“I think it’s weird as hell that a girl like you would be with a guy like Jason.” His eyebrows are low over his eyes, and his voice is full of sharp fury. “I think it’s weird that Ally was supposed to be on this sham double date with me, but spent the whole time ogling that idiot passed out upstairs. I think it’s weird that having you in my kitchen feels so damn right, so much more right than it ever felt when Kensley was here, and I thought I wanted to marry her.”

I get up as quietly as I can, but he sees my movement in the window, and watches my reflection as I bring my plate to the sink.

When I’m at his side, I put the plate under the water, and his hands cover mine for a second. We’re both reflected in the window now, side by side, but I’m too scared to look at us together. So I watch the water pour out of the faucet and foam with the soap in the bottom the sink, washing the memory of our meal together away forever.

“I should go to bed,” I say, but the splash of the water is louder than my voice. So much louder, I’m not sure he heard me.

“Go to bed,” he answers, pulling the plate away and washing it methodically.

“What if I don’t want to?” I venture.

He flips the faucet off and the silence that fills up the room roars in my ears.

He turns to me, and I never want to stop looking at his face. If I could, I’d take a picture of those dark, angry eyes, the hard and soft line of his lips, the wide, strong set of his jaw, but I can’t. I shake when I think I’m going to go back to phone calls and nothing else. I can’t.

“Do you like Ally at all?” I ask, desperate.

“I haven’t thought about her once tonight,” he says, his words more growl than coherent language. “Why are you asking about her now?”

“I hoped you’d have another date,” I admit, dropping my eyes and fisting my hands in the bottom of the shirt. His shirt.

“Why would you want me to go on another date with her? Look at me.” I look, and the deep brown of his eyes is drowning me, and I want it. I would swim away from a lifesaver if anyone bothered to throw me one. “Why would you want that?”

“Because I want to see you again. I want to be with you again,” I choke out, turning my head away when he puts his hand on my hip and drags me lopsidedly close.