Page 87 of An Accidental Flatmate

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Cas had stayed in Hunt’sspare bedroom the first night. Maybe he should have moved in there in the first place, but the idea of somewhere different, then the idea of sharing with Beatriz had taken hold. Now, he was rattling around the empty, lonely house attached to Niall Quinn’s workshop.

Hell. Bloody perishing hell.

Beatriz had said that when she’d upended his box of books on their first Saturday together. The first time she’d challenged him about his plans.

“I’ve seen your wedding gift to Anna and Hunter.”

She called him to meet Mo.

She talked graphic design software.

She tossed around ideas, made him laugh and then made glorious love to him.

He punched the pillow and rolled over.

I sleep better with her beside me.When did that happen?

He flopped to his other side.

What they shared was so far beyond the sex he’d had with other women. She’d pushed aside all his barricades with her laughter and passion. Passion forhim. She made him feel special, lavishing attention on his body, but also whispering words of encouragement, of pleasure and happiness, and she fed his confidence until he believed he could achieve his dreams out of bed.

She’d made a promise to her parents. Promises were sacrosanct in his family.

Needing to get his thoughts straight, he headed back to Anna’s apartment before dawn, brewed Beatriz’s must-have ginger tea, knocked on her door and pushed it wide. The bedclothes were a tangled mess around her feet. Instead of her usual nakedness—another little spurt of rebellion she’d gloried in—she was wearing one of his shirts.

Tousled, bleary-eyed, and he’d give her every cent he had if she asked him to and to hell with the consequences. He sat on the side of the bed while she wriggled backward until her back was against the headboard. Her toenails were purple and yellow this week. Irrelevant, but maybe sharing his bed had been another act of rebellion. Not his money, but bragging rights about his body.

She’s not like that.

“I’ve got your tea.” He handed her the cup.

She wrapped her hands around it, took her first sip and closed her eyes.

“First sip. Every day, and you get this ecstatic expression on your face.”

“Sorry.” She lowered the cup.

“What for?”

“For disappointing you. For not telling you sooner that I’m not in a position to share anything with anyone.”

“I’m not anyone, Beatriz.” Or so he’d hoped.

“No, you’re not. And I owe you an apology. I’ve loved sharing with you, living with you, making love to you, I”—she was unsmiling and had shadows in her eyes—"but I have to go home.”

“That simple?” Had she been going to say she loved him? Fool that he was, he wanted to hear those words from her.

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