Page 72 of The Right Garza
All that’s left to do now is some final fine-tuning and clean-up, and this place should be good to go.
Today was long, but far less exhausting than the days that preceded it. The new sign,Barefoot Runaway Bed and Breakfast,is finally up and I’m feeling good about it.
After a long bath at the end of a long day I’m craving something sweet. I pad downstairs to the kitchen, still in my purple robe.
Maggie is in the living room crunching on potato chips while watching her favorite garbage reality show where the women do nothing but scream and claw at each other and talk smack behind each other’s backs.
After searching the fridge a few frustrating minutes, I ask aloud, “Maggie, where’s the guava jam Monica sent me?”
“Sorry,” she calls from the couch. “I had the last of it.”
“For shit’s sake, Maggie,” I snap, slamming the fridge door. “I’m tired of you eating all my shit. It’s like you have freaking worms or something. You just eat and eat and eat and I can’t see where it’s all going.”
“I said I’m sorry! It was just so addictive.” She laughs with a mouthful of chips. “There’s some strawberry jelly left, though, isn’t there?”
“That tastes like shit,” I say, peeved. “Youbought that sothat’swhat you should’ve eaten and left my damn jam alone. Frickin’ hell, man. Monica’s aunt in Jamaica makes those specifically for her twice a year and ships them here, that’s why I use what I’m givensparingly, you greedy cow.”
As I put the kettle to boil and some milk to warm on low heat, settling for some hot cocoa instead, a knock comes at the side door.
I turn and scowl over at Maggie. “You’re expecting someone?”
We don’t have visitors here. Once the business of the day is over, we’re generally shut in tight here. Unless it’s the weekend and Trent comes to pick me up.
Maggie shakes her head emphatically. “Not me.”
There’s no peephole on this door, so I call, “Who is it?”
“Open up, Hellcat.”
Trent? I unlock the door and swing it open. Trent stands on the other side with a small duffel bag. He moves in, forcing me backward, and his intoxicating scent wraps around me like silk.
“Uh, hey,” I say, and I’m sure my expression is one of puzzlement.
He drops the bag to the floor, then turns to close the door, flipping the lock.
Our fling is a weekends-only thing, so seeing him here on a boring Wednesday night feels a little out of place.
When he’s facing me again, I ask, “What are you doing here?”
In answer, he takes my face between his palms and kisses me so hard and so deep for so long that my hankering for something sweet evaporates. Now…now I’m craving something else entirely.
His fingers curl in my damp hair as he drives me back against the kitchen counter.
When he finally unseals his mouth from mine, leaving me breathless and panting, he drags his lips to my ear, and, nipping my lobe, he whispers, “Fucking missed you. Couldn’t take it anymore. Had to see you.”
“Oh,” I breathe.
A loud crunch has us both turning our heads in the direction of the living room. Maggie is knelt up on the couch with her bag of chips, watching us with rapt attention. With another crunch, she gets to her feet and mutters, “I’m just gonna, uh…”—She points to the stairs as she beeline toward it— “yeah.”
I press my face to Trent’s chest and giggle.
He takes my chin and tilt my face up until our eyes meet. “You ignored me all day. Answered none of my messages.”
“I didn’t ignore you, I was busy,” I say. “Youdoremember giving me this monumental task, which includes me dealing with a ton of people all day long, right? I don’t even know where my phone is half the time.”
“Maybe I should take away this ‘monumental task’ then, so you can have time for me. Your man.”
I raise a brow at him. “And willyouhave time for me then? Mister private—secret, whatever the hell it is that you do.”
