Page 45 of Hard Deal
This wasn’t how she did sex. With her ex it’d been good, albeit a little bland. Missionary mostly, lights off. That was how she’d thought he liked it until she’d discovered that it wasn’t. It’d bothered her for years after whether he preferred it like that so he could imagine she was one of his mistresses—if he could superimpose someone else’s face over hers in the dark?
But with Caleb everything was full colour, surround sound. Nothing got hidden or glossed over. Every part of her body had been worshiped.
The bed still bore an impression of his frame. He was in the kitchen, judging by the noises that filtered under the crack at the bedroom door. An empty champagne bottle sat next to his alarm clock, late-morning light glinting off the gold foil around the neck. It was almost lunchtime.
Smoothing her hands over her legs, she contemplated what to do next. She feared that leaving his room might burst this wonderful fantasy bubble. But reality had to be faced at some point. As if sensing her indecision, Caleb walked through the door.
“I’m going to do a coffee run.” He looked even better the morning after with his blond hair rumpled and his muscled torso bare above black boxer briefs that left nothing to the imagination. “And stop staring at my junk. It’s not cool to objectify someone when they’re about to procure your breakfast.”
“Can I do it after you procure breakfast?” She grinned. “And I’ll have a latte, soy—”
“Soy milk, no sugar. Extra hot.” He winked. “Yeah, I know.”
A warm, fuzzy feeling settled in her chest. “Thanks.”
“Anything for you.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead and pulled the bedside drawer open. Rows and rows of patterned socks were neatly folded, organised by colour like his wardrobe. He pulled out a pair that were black with little green Martians. “What are you looking at?”
“Your socks. That’s quite a collection.”
“The world needs more colour.” He dressed quickly and kissed her again before he fished his wallet out of his suit pants, which were still in a heap on the floor. “I’ll be back. If you want a shower, clean towels are in the cupboard in the bathroom. I won’t be long.”
“I’ll wait,” she said. “We should save water and do it together. You know, for the planet.”
“Hot and environmentally friendly. I like it.”
Imogen didn’t move until the front door slammed shut. It was strange being alone in his space and yet totally at ease. His apartment was far from the slick, overly styled image she’d imagined. It was cosy and lived-in. Real.
There was that word again.
She grabbed a towel from the bathroom and wrapped it around herself before heading into the lounge room. A set of four framed photos hung on one wall. They were all black and white but each one had a slim, coloured frame. Red, blue, green and yellow.
Rising up onto her tiptoes, she inspected the photos. One showed a mother and baby—which she assumed was Caleb. Then there was another photo of the two of them, years later. Caleb looked about ten and he had a huge grin on his face. His fair hair was spiked up and his mother smiled dotingly at him. One photo was of him and his brother as teenagers. Jason wore a serious expression and Caleb was smirking. The last one was the two brothers standing in front of the newly built Allbrook office, which would make the photo about six years old. A ribbon stretched across the front door behind them and Jason held a pair of ceremonial scissors. This time Caleb wasn’t smiling.
Imogen touched her fingertip to the photo, brushing over his expressionless face. It made her chest ache to see his smile missing. Why would he put this photo on his wall? It didn’t look like a happy memory. Maybe it was a reminder? But of what?
There were no photos of Gerald, which she suspected wasn’t an accident. Theirs was a relationship so fractured Imogen couldn’t even begin to comprehend it. At least when her ex had broken her heart she’d been able to walk away. Cut ties. Heal—well, kind of. But Caleb didn’t have that luxury. He had to face the person who tore him down every single day. He had to experience that pain over and over.
No wonder the guy hid behind a charming smile, slick suits and snappy comebacks.
“I see you,” she said to the photo. “I see who you are underneath.”
A knock at the door broke through her thoughts and Imogen headed over to answer it. She hadn’t expected Caleb to go out and fetch them breakfast, but his gentlemanly morning-after approach was super sweet and very much appreciated. He knew that she needed a coffee to function, and it proved he’d been paying much closer attention than she’d given him credit for.
“Hey.” She pulled the door open and the smile died on her lips.
It wasn’t Caleb. The woman standing in the hallway looked as shocked as she felt—and her gaze slid over Imogen’s bare legs and arms, over the fluffy white towel keeping the important bits covered, but not much else.
“I’m sorry.” The woman shook her head. “I wasn’t expecting... I didn’t know he was seeing anyone.”
Up until those last few words, Imogen might have been able to brush off the awkward encounter as a neighbour looking to borrow a cup of sugar or whatever the hell was the generic reason one person knocked on another’s door. But on closer inspection, the woman wasn’t dressed like she needed a simple favour. Her hair was done, her face perfectly made-up in that way that made guys think you weren’t wearing any makeup at all. The breezy summer dress was short and left miles of tanned skin free.
“Grace?” Caleb’s voice made both women whip their heads around.
He strode down the hallway, a tray with two coffee cups in one hand and a paper bag in the other. He was every bit the dashing, dishevelled playboy—light hair mussed from a night of passionate sex, a hint of a shadow beneath his eyes, one darker along his jaw.
“I, um...” The woman took a step back. Her expression was tight, her jaw ticking like she was trying damn hard to keep herself together. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“What’s wrong? Do you need something?” He seemed genuinely concerned, but otherwise emotionally detached.