When I’d learned she had a baby, I’d hated the infant immediately. My disposition had improved the second I’d learned he was her brother, and my jealousy had been further alleviated when I’d seen him outside the funeral home.
With all that hair?
With those sparkling green eyes?
Phoebe in the flesh.
How could I not find him adorable? Even if he did make a mess and a lot of noise in the restaurant I’d taken her to, he’d done it with a smile that reminded me of her.
I should have known then I was doomed.
Still, my loft wasn’t child-friendly. As I stood at the doorway, trying to picture what she’d think, I had to wince.
The open floor plan was split into two sections. To the left was a doorway that led to the bedrooms, bathrooms, and the kitchen and utility room, but directly ahead was a raised platform that was separated from the lounge area by a wall.
Once upon a time, the walls had been blank, then I’d stumbled upon a Yayoi Kusama print in a store and had bought it, framed it, and placed it there.
Whenever I walked in, I saw the print first and it reminded me of both Phoebe and myself.
The print was almost like a cross-section of a cell. With its endless dots and looping shapes, bloodred eyes, and the spiky perimeter that reminded me of dripping blood. But what resonated were the faces. I guessed they were crude, but one watched another and that was me watching Phoebe.
In that print, I saw infinity.
An endlessness to the obsession I had with her.
The need to watch her seemed epitomized in that print, and it was the only bolt of bright color in the entire place.
The table and chairs were dark wood, modern in style. The lounge consisted of a navy sectional on a thick-pile cream rug. Opposite was a fireplace that ran the length of the wall, and above it, a TV that I never used. Beside the sectional was a small stand that carried a lamp, and in the corner was my desk. Its twin was in my office at the campus, as was the desk chair, and it was neat. Most of the paperwork was housed within the drawers and never on the surface.
I sat there mostly, staring out at the street or the tree opposite my building, unable to relax in a place that was my home and yet, felt detached to me.
When the buzzer to my door sounded, I jolted in surprise as I realized how long I’d been staring at my apartment. Knowing she was there, I felt a curious buzz churn through me. It was a mixture of nerves because I wanted her to like the place even though I didn’t, and also, relief.
She was here.
She hadn’t run.
She’d be safe and I could rest.
My heart calmed when she buzzed again, and I pressed the release, coolly stating, “Yes?” It was amazing how cold I sounded, not just cool, when I felt anything but around her.
It was like I was constantly running a fever in her presence, and hell, maybe I was.
She was my own personal sickness in the flesh, and I adored her for it.
“Professor?” she answered, her voice faintly high-pitched, her nerves bleeding through and as always, because I was a sick fuck, that calmed me down. “It’s me.”
“Who’s me?” I asked, my lips curving even while my tone was stern.
She cleared her throat. “Umm, Phoebe? Phoebe Whitehouse?”
Like there was any other Phoebe, any other woman who was allowed here.
This was, did she but know it, her place.
“I’ll be down in a moment,” I informed her.
“Oh. You don’t have to. If you don’t want me to come up, it’s ok—”
“I’ll be down in a moment,” I repeated, interrupting her without compunction.
I knew her confidence issues wouldn’t resolve themselves with me barking at her all the damn time, but my barbs were a means of self-defense.
If she was going to live with me, though, and I fully intended on keeping her here, I’d need to stop that.
Her hesitations and stuttering irked me.
She was glorious.
A creature made to be worshipped.
Such glory did not stutter.
Such a being did not whisper her way through difficult statements.
Resolving myself to not being curt with her, even if that made for a few awkward conversations where I couldn’t speak what first came to mind, I cut off the intercom, grabbed my keys, and headed out the door.
I was only two floors up, so I always took the stairs, and when I saw Jackson, the doorman, both eying her up and staring at her things with dismay, the beast inside me reared to life.
Glowering at him until he dipped his chin and turned his head away, I stared at Phoebe, looked at the sleeping child in the car seat, and then at the four bags she had with her.
Blinking at the sight, I asked, “Is the rest in the taxi?”
Her cheeks bloomed with heat. “Um, no, this is everything.”
Everything?
Their lives, their worlds, were in these four bags?
Jackson coughed. “Sir, I paid the taxi.”
I cut him a look, retrieved my wallet, and gave him a fifty.
“It was thirty dollars,” Phoebe squeaked.
“Keep the change,” I told him, ignoring her.
When she flushed again, I sighed, then held out a hand. “Take it,” I urged, when she stared at the key resting there.
As her fingers brushed against my skin, I realized that was the first voluntary, non-sexual touch I’d ever had from her. Christ, my cock leaked pre-cum from that single, caressing touch of the tips of her fingers against the tender skin of my palm. So innocent yet so powerful.
My jaw clenched, but I hid my agitation by ducking down, grabbing two bags under my arms, then clutching the other two by their handles. I didn’t wait for her to follow, just left her to carry Scott as I headed back up the way I came. When I heard her tentative footsteps against the stairs, I sighed in relief and remained silent as I led her to my apartment.
Backing up so she could reach the door first, I motioned at it with my chin when she made it up the stairs.
Keeping her eyes downcast the way she did always irritated me, even if I understood why—if you kept your eyes trained on the ground, you remained a stranger to the world itself. You could blend into the shadows, and slip through the cracks until everyone forgot about you.
Of course, she hadn’t slipped through my cracks.
I’d seen her.
Seen her and made her the center of my world.
As she opened the door, she released a sigh as she went inside, and I followed her in. I didn’t wait for her to look at the place, to critique it, instead, I headed down the hallway to where my personal torment had begun.
There were four bedrooms in the loft.
I could easily have put her in the room the farthest away.
Instead?
I put her beside me.
“You can use another room for Scott if you want,” I rasped, my voice loaded with the strain that having her here, so close and yet so fucking far, would present.
Her smile was faint. “Call him Scottie. I don’t even know if he’ll answer to Scott.” Then, she cleared her throat and mumbled, “I wouldn’t want to put you out even more so he can just sleep with me.”
She’d been doing that for eighteen months and hadn’t even known it. Why should this be any different?
My life had changed that day I’d seen her on campus, and when she’d ultimately signed up for my class? Christ, it had gone from bad to worse.