The Carrero Heart - Beginning (Friends to Lovers)

Chapter 79

I spend the morning filling out applications and emailing Jake’s assistant back, over apartments she’s sent me to look over. Choosing a couple that I think look nice I tell her to set me up viewings for as soon as possible. One of them is small, close to the school, and looks cozy and easy to maintain. My instant gut reaction to the pictures is that it is more than a possibility.

Arrick came back so late last night I didn’t even hear him come home. Sound asleep and oblivious to what time he came back after tossing and turning myself into unconsciousness. I don’t want to know anything about where they were, what they said, or what they did. I don’t even want to know what time he showed up, because my mind will probably point in directions that kill me, about what they could’ve been doing half the night at her apartment. I’m so not able to cope with that kind of agony nowadays; somehow knowing they did that stuff in the past was more manageable. I could ignore it, but now, I think I may actually cry myself to death if he admits that is what he’s was doing all night.

He must have got up before six this morning, for the gym, or to meet his trainer, as he was gone before I surfaced but signs that he has been here are all over the place. His clothes in the laundry, dishes in the sink from making a smoothie and his bed is all messed up too, not that I went in there to check; his door was open when I got up, and I couldn’t help but see.

I assume he’s at the gym or with his trainer still, seeing as it’s now after ten and there is literally no sign of him. I thought about calling his cell but really, what point is there? It’s not like I need him to tell me where he is or have reason to see him. No reason to want to know. Well, except that I do … but it’s not my right. He has his own life; he doesn’t answer to me or even needs to. He doesn’t even need to tell me if he had sex with her, after all, it’s only my heart that makes me feel like he should. Not his.

I throw my notebook aside, the one I’ve been doodling dresses in, between answering emails and watching daytime TV listlessly. I’m restless and unsettled, and even the arrival of his housekeeper at eight am. for an hour has done little to amuse me. The woman barely spoke, nodded, and smiled, gave me some pancakes as she left and that was it. House back to immaculate, beds made, laundry is gone,

as though he was never home, and I’m sat like a third wheel in his empty apartment, driving myself crazy with tormenting thoughts about him banging Natasha.

I text Leila and get nothing but sassy responses; she is clearly on her period and having a day of ‘fuck you’ at everyone’s expense. I give up on that little conversation quickly, not in the mood to deal with whatever is up with her. Probably another tiff with her husband and I wonder how on earth he still puts up with her. Leila is a cyclone and Hunter is just way too laid back sometimes. I think he likes her craziness; the two of them are plain weird.

I leave Camilla another voicemail, seeing as I still haven’t heard from her after abandoning her in that apartment, and to be honest, her wall of silence is really pissing me off. I thought we were friends, of sorts, but I guess she is just another shallow asshole who probably spiked my drink that night, and I’m better off shot of her. Like everyone I ever became friends with, I didn’t invest enough emotion to actually care that she is no longer around. Very few ever really got to me the way Arrick does. NôvelDrama.Org owns this text.

The ping of the elevator has me catapulting myself off the couch, overly eager to see him and suddenly flustered that he’s back, yet not ready either. After waiting agonizingly for hours, I’m faced with nerves and so not sure how to behave. I smooth my hair, fix my dress, and sit down again once more, hauling over my notebook in a bid to look busy and not at all bothered by his absence. Heart hammering through my chest, eyes glancing to the doors, and I try to look anything but antsy and spring loaded like I’m about to go off.

When it opens a moment later and he saunters in, completely relaxed, I resist the urge to look his way. I can see him from the corner of my eye, carrying a gym bag, dressed in sweats and a tee, and I can smell fresh shower gel and body spray almost immediately. Wafting my way in the air and try not to sigh at his familiar scents. He’s drinking from a water bottle, head tilted back and not really focused on my whereabouts in the way I’m noticing his. He finally does, after dumping his bag and whatever else he’s carrying in the foyer area.

“Hey.” He calls to me in a casual tone, like he has no reason to be any other way and this is just a normal everyday morning of him coming home to me in his apartment. I glance up, smile tightly, and go back to what I’m doing. Not sure if I’m meant to be pissed or not anymore. I’ve lost track of whatever our last mood was, and to be honest, I am too exhausted for this. I want things between us to be normal again, for him to flop down and make me laugh, or make me forget anything about where he was all night. I drop my chin and continue one of the sketches I’ve been playing with, coloring in a skirt that I’m filling out on a headless body, in a bid to appear nonchalant. I jump in fright as his voice startles me in my left ear.

“Looks good.... Needs brighter colors though. Do we need to go art supply shopping.” He’s leaning over the couch, face almost against my cheek and I’m suddenly overwhelmed by both the proximity and the smell of him, when it’s right here, breathing distance away, nosing at what I’m doing. I frown up at him and shove his face away immaturely, impulsively, with a hand under his chin, yet also a necessity. His closeness making my heart race a little too wildly.

Arrick swipes the notebook from me as I push him back and then squeal and try to retrieve it from him, panic overtaking my need to have distance, turning in my seat to chase after it. He holds it up in the air on its side so I can’t reach. Placing a hand on my shoulder as I try to stand on the couch to get it back, but he pushes me to my knees and holds it higher as he looks, pages fluttering open above his eye level.

“Don’t...Leave it alone and don’t look at it.” I yelp and squirm, embarrassed by my childish scribbles of dresses and outfits that I’ve thought up, but he just laughs at me and my futile attempts to get it back from him. Face flaming and wholly mortified. Art was never a huge strong point for me, and clothes are about the only thing I have ever drawn.

“Come on, Sophs. I want to see what you’re drawing.” He holds it higher when I make a mad dash grab for it, wrenching free from his grip and manage to get up on my feet. I almost get a hold of the corner,

stretching up the length of him in a bid to reach while using his chest as support under one palm, so I don’t fall over. I yelp in surprise as he grabs me around the hips with one strong arm, caught unaware because my attention is diverted upwards and throws me over his shoulder like a light rag doll and chuckles.

I turn into a wriggling mass, trying to break free and cursing him out while still reaching crazily for my notebook. I have zero chance of getting it back like this. I can’t even reach from here and he has a vice-like hold on me that tells me I have no chance of escape. I still try. Reaching over his head for it is futile, but now his arm is stretched out instead of up and they are way too long for me to get anywhere near it.

Arrick walks around the room with me over his shoulder, like I weigh nothing, and even fighting him, he’s in control and barely acknowledges me. He lets the pages fall open randomly and just keeps shoving me over anytime I try to lever myself up to get off him. I hate that he has shoulders wide enough to perch me here effortlessly, and the strength in one arm alone to restrain me. I mean, normally they are an extremely attractive feature, but right now, I want to smack him across the head. I feel like I’m caught in a place between anger and embarrassment and this is truly uncomfortable.

“Stop it. I actually hate you right now.” I wail at him and try to fight once more, but he’s too strong. I kick out when he adjusts his position, bumps me up his shoulder with a little thrust and his full flat palm lands on my ass as his point of hold. Splayed over my butt cheek, and holding me firmly, so I can’t get away. He seems oblivious to the fact his entire hand is cupping my ass cheek, intimately, not innocent in the slightest. The interior wave of fire that runs amok within me at this little realization only pushes me to wriggle more, confused by my obvious hormonal reaction.