Page 57 of Tempt Our Fate
CAMDEN
Leave me alone.
BECK
We’ll talk about this later. I have to know what townie has lured you into their bed.
Are you cuddling at two in the afternoon on a weekday?
CAMDEN
Fuck off. Shouldn’t you be galavanting with your new wife?
BECK
She’s ignoring me, busy painting shit for your gallery. I’m lonely and wanted to talk about a new business venture.
CAMDEN
Tell her she can have an extension if you’ll leave me the hell alone.
BECK
Can’t wait to get all the juicy details later.
I roll my eyes, placing my phone next to me so I’m not tempted to respond back to my nosy friend. I glance at Pippa, not expecting to see her eyes fluttering open.
“Did I wake you up?” I whisper, pushing pieces of hair from her face.
She gives me a sleepy smile, and fuck, it disarms me. I almost push her off my chest, not wanting her to feel my rapid heartbeat against her cheek, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I just pray that she doesn’t feel the way my pulse spikes at the sheer beauty of her sleepy smile.
“I’m sorry if I did,” I add as she stretches her legs underneath the blankets. Her foot brushes against my leg. I want to tangle my limbs with hers, to hold her against my chest as we both get lost in sleep.
“I should probably get up anyway.” Her voice is throatier than normal as she tries to wake up.
My thumb traces over her cheekbone, over the same place I wanted to caress while she slept peacefully on my chest. “Go back to sleep for a bit. I’m going to go make some food for when you wake up.”
She doesn’t argue, the medicine getting the best of her as her eyes flutter closed once again. I take a few moments to watch her again before I carefully slide out from underneath her. I miss her body the moment we’re no longer connected, but I want her to have more to eat than just the pastry I bought from the cafe, so I break the connection and walk in the direction I think her kitchen is.
My stomach growls. Watching episode after episode on the Food Network is making me hungry as well.
Her dog—named Kitty, which is such a Pippa thing to do—follows closely behind me. It isn’t hard to find the kitchen in her small one-story house. I like how homey it feels here. Even with the limited amount of space on the quiet, small-town street, she’s made the space she has feel like a home, not a house. As I look around, making my way to the kitchen, I realize how cold and empty my penthouse in Manhattan must feel.
I stop on pictures that line the wall in her living room. There are so many of them, and I can’t help but look closely at each photograph. There’s some with Pippa and who I now know as her brother and who must be their parents. I look at the woman who has to be her mother because of the resemblance between the two. My heart feels heavy when I look at Pippa’s arm wrapped around her. I haven’t had to mourn a parent—not that mine were really ever parents at all—but I can’t imagine what it’d feel like to lose one who was as amazing as Pippa made her mom out to be.
I continue to look at all the photos, marveling at the life Pippa’s lived. There are pictures of her on horses, at her bakery, and some with a blonde that seem to be from college. I fight the urge to want to know everything about her. I want to know the backstory for every photo. It isn’t lost on me that I searched for men in them, wondering if a man has ever stolen her heart or what her past must look like.
Moving from the photos on her wall, I look around her living room. She has a large white sectional that covers an entire wall and cuts across the open floor plan. There are throw pillows on almost every inch of the couch. They’re bright and fun colors, something I appreciate. I paid thousands upon thousands of dollars to have my place decorated back in Manhattan, and the most color there is the little bit of navy in certain rooms.
I finally walk into her kitchen, laughing because, like everything else about her, it’s a little messy. There are cups lined by the sink and a few dishes in it. It isn’t dirty, but the keys and mail strewn about the counter are far more disorganized than my own space. I like that about her, which is something I never imagined myself saying. I like that she’s always moving to the beat of her own drum, moving from one thing to the next without ever taking things too seriously.
I open her fridge to find it relatively empty. Trisha has made sure my fridge at my rental stays stocked, so even if I wanted to leave Pippa’s to get her some groceries—which I don’t—I wouldn’t even know what to get.
She has one pack of chicken in there. I check the expiration date, finding that it still has a few days until it goes bad. Pulling the chicken out, I set it on the counter and continue to rifle through the contents of the fridge until I feel like I have enough to make her some soup.
As the skillet heats, I pull my phone out and call Trisha to ask her to send some groceries. I might not be able to run out and get Pippa some, but I want her to have options without having to worry about going grocery shopping. Trisha doesn’t ask any questions, even when I give an address for the delivery she knows isn’t my rental.
I’m busy adding some last-minute salt and pepper to the simmering pot of chicken noodle soup when Pippa ambles into the kitchen. The entire right side of her face is red, imprints from the sheets pressed into her skin.