Page 141 of Hate You More

Some things just hit viscerally. Clara. That word means Clara.

“The kitchen is beautiful,” she goes on, coasting her touch along the bullnose marble like a hand model. My mind jumps from hand model to hand jobs. Hers specifically, while she’s wearing my ring. That she’s wearing it right now and not for show or to support the narrative is a beautiful thing. I fuckin’ love seeing it on her hand for some reason. She doesn’t usually wear it around the apartment. And I should know, given I’m here more now than I’ve ever been.

“Did you help?”

“Huh?”

“The kitchen. Did you help design it?” I give my head a quick shake. “Well, they did a great job. But if you want, I could give you a hand?”

I would love a—

Get your head out of the gutter, man.

“We could run through your options here,” she says, glancing at the samples.

“Sure. Why not? Give me a crash course in style.” I just like hanging out with her. Though it seems kind of unfair that she isn’t going to be here to see the end product. Kind of unfair to both of us.

I shrug out of my jacket as she rounds the island, her gaze covertly taking the movement in. It makes me wonder if I shouldn’t stop at the jacket. Except that would be fucking up the (literal) fucking schedule.

I miss her in my bed.

Jesus, I’ve got to stop torturing myself.

She has her trust fund but she’s still here. I should be grateful for that—take what she’ll give with the understanding that this can’t be anything more.

“So.” She comes to a stop next to me, her arm almost touching mine as she picks up one of the miniature marble slabs. “What do you think?” she asks, almost weighing it in her hands, then tilting it toward the light.

“I think it’s marble.” It’s white. Veins running through it. Brown, gold, a little black.

Her soft laugh whispers over my skin like a slipped sheet. “It’s Calacatta. The veining’s warmer than this one,” she says, putting it down and swapping it out for another.

I rest my palms on the countertop. “It’s only for the guest bathrooms. I won’t even use them.”

“That’s not the point.” She turns, standing the darker marble against the backsplash. “This one is too cold for the light you get on the other side of the apartment, I think.”

I study the sample, then the kitchen, trying to see what she sees. Cold is a temperature, not a color. “Then let’s go with that one.”

“Cheat.” She smiles, then tilts her head thoughtfully. “Okay, so let’s figure out what you respond to.”

You. The word feels like a punch to the gut or a slap to the face as I shove my hands into my pockets as Clara, oblivious to my lust, begins laying things side by side. She chats animatedly as she does so. Contrast. Texture. Space. Visual versus tactile. Layering and light interplay. But I can only think of the words in terms of her.

The contrast of her pale thigh sliding up mine. The velvet texture of her pussy against my fingertips and the satin-soft brush of hair across my cock. The way the moon turns her skin milky and the thick sweep of her lashes jet black. How my chest feels cracked open at the sight of her.

Fuck, how I long to close the distance between us. Slide my hands around her waist. Lift her to the countertop and kiss the fuck out of her. But she’s enjoying this, playing designer. I’ll let her design till her heart is content. She can choose the materials, the colors. Decide where the furniture should sit, make this place a home and—

Then she’ll leave. She’ll move on. The way we planned.

Her absence will echo through the place, and . . .

I’ll probably tear the apartment to pieces and start again.

She slices her hair behind her ears as she says something about night versus the morning. I stifle a sigh. I want Clara’s nights. I want her days too. In my pockets, my fingers ball into fists. I shift my weight to one foot as though it might help this pent-up energy. But it just brings the floral scent of her closer, my focus narrowing to the plush cushion of her mouth.

It’s not just how she looks. I’m genuinely in awe of her in so many ways. Yesterday, I had the privilege of sitting in on her meeting with her first prospective board member, and she impressed the fuck out of me. The way she passionately pitched her ideals to Sue Vergara, a no-bullshit veteran of Goldman Sachs, was nothing short of beautiful. She cut straight to the consequence, the reasons for her actions, spoke of profit margins being important but secondary.

Clara wasn’t trying to impress her—whether we’re in a coffee shop or an office or a fundraiser, she treats everyone with the same care and attention. From a junior staffer to a bona fide mogul, she’s fair to all. She wants better outcomes for strangers and friends who’ll never know she’s intervened. She genuinely cares, and that just . . . that just makes me feel all kinds of inconvenient things.

She looks up, and I instantly realize she’s waiting for an answer to a question I didn’t hear.