Coming Home (Only Time Will Tell #1) (2 page)

A knock at the door grabs my attention. I walk through the lounge, and unlock and open the door without checking the peep hole. There's only one person who visits me—the above mentioned best friend and her two sidekicks: bottle of wine number one and bottle of wine number two.

It may be Thursday night, but we’re having a little celebration. I’ve finally completed the decorating and furnishing, minus couches. “Hey babes. You okay?” I ask, as I greet her at the door, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek as we give each other a hug.

“I am now,” she beams, veering into the kitchen.

Heading back into the lounge I plonk myself down on one of my chaise lounges—A.K.A., a couple of sun loungers with throws over them and decorative cushions.

“Are you hungry?” I ask, as I hear the sound of glass clinking.

“Yes! I'm starving,” she shouts. “I've been tasting Thai food all day.” She arrives in the lounge, struggling to carry filled glasses of wine and the two bottled sidekicks.

I laugh, grabbing a glass and taking a sip. “If that's what my interior designer wants, that's what she'll get,” I say in my best posh British accent, suppressing a giggle.

“That is most definitely what she wants, Catalina,” she mimics back, as she puts everything down on the coffee table and takes a seat on the free lounger, kicking off her flip flops and relaxing. “I think we did a darn good job,” she continues, looking around, eyeing all the hard work we put into it over the last few weeks.

I wanted a few things, cozy, modern and minimal. The lounge is black and white, but it doesn't feel cold or harsh. The walls are white, minus one, which has black decorative wallpaper on it. The loungers are in place of the couches that will eventually sit, with one facing a white wall, which has a flat screen television mounted on it, and one lounger facing the floor to ceiling windows, which lead onto the terrace, overlooking the town and the apartment’s pool.

I grab my cell off of the glass coffee table and order food, before she decides to waste away on me.

“I so wish it was me heading out on a cruise in a few weeks.” Nod sighs, as I put the phone back on the coffee table. “Mr. Johnson definitely doesn't need a break from sitting in his office, while we sit in ours doing all the hard work.”

I lean back on my lounger, flicking on the television. “I know. I guess it's what you get for being the boss of a company; do what you want, when you want and pay the monkey's peanuts, while you reap the benefits of all their hard work.”

Mr. Johnson is our boss. He's actually a decent guy. So far he’s basically kept out of our way. He even makes us drinks when we’re up to the eyeballs with work, and always praises us. Up to yet, I have yet to see him get on anyones case.

He's always dressed in expensive suits, and his snow white hair is always neatly trimmed. He has one of those dazzling smiles that makes you feel comfortable and also makes you do everything he asks. He kindly dropped by the office earlier today, telling us that, yet again, he was heading off on vacation in a few weeks. I swear he does it to rub our noses in it.

“I guess. I'd do the same if I was in his shoes. He’d be better off retiring altogether, but he says he prefers to keep busy while he can,” she states, sitting up and taking a huge gulp of her wine. “What's the plan for tomorrow night anyway? Where do you wanna try this week?”

This has become our little ritual. Every Friday night after work, we find somewhere to go or plan on doing something to relieve the weekly stresses. It usually involves food and lots of wine. “I'm not sure. I'll Google it tomorrow and see if I can find some place to go,” I say, as I sit up and take a couple of mouthfuls of wine. “I just know that I plan on drinking my weight in alcohol.”

She laughs and shakes her head at me, combing her blond hair out her face with her fingers. “You say that every week, and never do.”

“This week, it's sticking,” I state.

The food arrives about half an hour later and we sit and chat about work and our plans for the weekend. She is spending hers with her boyfriend of the last three years. He's been away all week for a business trip and so they plan on “catching up,” as soon as he gets back tomorrow afternoon.

I've met Ryan a few times, he seems to be a genuinely nice guy and I can't imagine him ever hurting Nod. In fact, I can see them getting married and having lots of little cute babies. She says she doesn't see it herself, but I truly believe she does. Her mouth says no, but her eyes get all gooey when I tell her what I think. I just wish they’d hurry up and get a house, like they’ve been planning for months, apparently.

My plans? They’re not really plans, it's more of a case that without Nod to keep me company, it's just me, myself and I. I'll more than likely get laundry done, chat with family, read and finish the wine we have left over from tonight.
Yippee!!
 

I really need to get some more friends. I know Nadine is the greatest friend ever. At times like this though, I realize just how pathetic my life is. Not having her in it means I have no one, and that’s just depressing.

She leaves, stuffed and tipsy, around eleven. I ordered her a cab because the last thing I wanted was for something to happen to her, I'd never forgive myself. Ever.

I make a quick trip into the bathroom, checking that I had removed all the day’s make-up and tying my hair into a messy bun. I always take a second to look at myself. Not just a quick glance, but seriously look at myself. It's amazing to see the real you sometimes, see how you've changed, see your face change as you age. It's weird, I know, but it still amazes me.

I do notice that I look so much healthier now. When I arrived a couple of months ago, my hair was darker and my skin paler. Now, my dark brown hair has lightened and looks incredibly sun-kissed and I don't look washed out now that my skin is tanned. Florida definitely agrees with me.

The clock is slowly ticking down, inching ever closer to the five o'clock mark. I'm sitting at my desk, tapping my pen relentlessly against the wooden surface.

Nadine throws a screwed up sheet of paper directly into my face. “Hey, what was that for?” I ask picking it up off my desk and throwing it back in her direction.

“This...” she states and starts tapping her own pen against the desk. “You’re driving me mental. What's wrong with you today?”

“Nothing.” Because there isn't. But, do you ever get one of those feelings, where something isn't right, like you’re instinctively detecting a death, injury or fire? I'm having one of those, like I know something bad has happened but I just haven't gotten the bad news yet. It's getting to me. It's making me nervous.

“Have you found anywhere for tonight?” she asks, changing the subject, distracting me from my uneasiness.

I nod and pass her the print out I did for her while she was in a meeting. I knew if I didn't, I'd lose the page and forget everything. “Leopard Lounge, it's only a couple of blocks away on Cocoanut Row.”

“Looks a bit expensive,” she says as she glances over the menu and images. She eventually looks up and raises a questioning brow. We normally keep it cheap. “You know I'm saving, I can't splurge this much on food and drink.”

The British accent is back. “Don't worry about that. Thai food does not say thank you half as much as a sophisticated night out.”

Nod chews on her lip, looking nervous. “I can't. I can't expect you to pay for last night and tonight, oh and not forgetting the week before.”

“You didn't expect me to, I offered,” I say as I take the paperwork back that she's shoving back to me. “Last week was a favor and this week was my idea. So, suck it up, we’re going.” I smile and she smiles too. I won that one.

We look at the other two women who work in the office and realize that it's finally five o'clock.
Thank. The. Lord
. I clear my desk of everything except what is normally left out and grab my purse from under my desk.
 

Nadine rushes past me shouting that she's going to the bathroom before we walk to the bar. So, I use my free minutes to make sure my hair is still looking reasonable in a messy, wavy ponytail, hook my arm through the handle of my black tote and head out into the reception area while checking that I haven't splattered any coffee down my gray dress—although it is stupidly skin tight, I would have felt it.

This is one of my favorite Friday night dresses. It comes to just above the knee making it acceptable for work, but it's quite low cut with capped sleeves so it shows just enough skin for slumming it in a bar afterwards.

As I'm walking out, not paying any attention to what’s going on around me, I accidentally walk—head first—into something hard.

I stumble in my heels, from hitting this unsuspecting thing or person, with such force that it knocks me off balance. Two hands grasp at my elbows, steadying me.

The contact sends a shiver down my spine and every hair on my body stands at attention. I am instantly reminded of the frost we used to get in England. I always thought it was so beautiful the way it resembled little white mountains on the surface of a park bench.

I force myself back to the present. I'm almost too embarrassed to look at him. “I'm so sorry,” I say as apologetically as possible, keeping my head down, checking my dress over, even though I know it looks fine. When he doesn’t say a word, I cautiously start to look up.

“Are you okay, Miss?” His words feel like molten lava, slowly being poured over those frosted mountains.

I only ever got this feeling from one person, and that voice definitely belonged to him.

It's deeper, manlier and who'd have guessed it could have gotten sexier. Certainly not me.

Eventually, I look him in the eyes, those turquoise eyes. Eyes that I've not seen in years, and thought I never would again. But here he is...right here…in front of me. Holding me.

Swallowing hard, I try to get rid of the sandpaper that I now call a tongue, and attempt to keep my voice steady. “I'm fine, thank you.”

He’s staring at me with his mouth open, his eyes scanning my face. I want him to say something, react to me, but, nothing.

I'm staring at him, half-hoping that he recognizes me and half-hoping that he doesn't. That would open up a can of worms that's been sealed shut, locked in a safe and dumped out at sea. It’s been out at sea for all these years shouldn't be opened again. Ever.

“I'm sorry for barging into you,” I say, trying to gather my composure. “I really should watch where I'm going.” I look at his hands that are still holding me upright, even though I don't need it, not really anyway.

He lets me go and shakes himself like he’s in his own daze. “Sorry,” he mutters. “It was half my fault, I wasn't watching where I was going, either.”

I hold my breath, briefly waiting to see if he says anything, but he doesn't.

I don’t understand why it surprises me. This is the guy that promised to never forget me, never to abandon me and to constantly be there for me when I needed him. The same guy who completely cut me out of his life after a couple of months of me being in England. One day it just ended, right out of the blue.

I’ve always put it down to the fact that once I was out of his life, he forgot I ever existed. It used to kill me to think of him with someone else and moving on, but deep down I knew it would happen sooner or later.

I don’t want anything from him. Why would I? But now that he’s back in my life, standing here in front of me, I ache to know why. I loved him and he turned his back on me while I went through hell alone. If he loved me as much as he said he did, how could he do that?

I continue staring at him as my thoughts run riot in my head and all he can do is shove his hands into the pockets of his expensive-looking gray dress pants, straighten himself out and look past me, like I'm no longer there.
Ignorant!
 

“Ah, Kyle,” Mr. Johnson says from behind me, “they said you were coming up. I thought they were drunk already,” he laughs.

I step aside, nervously fiddling with the straps of my purse as it's hooked into the crook of my elbow. Kyle Cooper.
Kyle. Fucking. Cooper.
 

I look at the pair of them, smiling and chatting. The whole time I want to slap him upside the head. I’m surprised to know he still has the power to send tingles down my spine, but that doesn't mean I don't want to cause him bodily harm. Not that it would be of much use, because by the looks of things, he doesn’t even want to acknowledge who I am.

His smile hasn't changed. In fact, he has the same smile as Mr. Johnson. His hair is still blond, lighter at the ends, cut short at the sides and a complete mess on the top. Like he's just woken up. I used to like it like that. He has stubble on his chin and jaw, but I can still see how sharp it is. The suit, however, is completely not him, not how I remember him anyway. He hated the “corporate look.” He said he’d never walk in these kind of shoes. Yet look at him now. Although, it does suit him, especially with no tie and the top few buttons undone, showing a hint of his chest. God, it irritates me that I can’t help thinking about what I'd do to slowly unbutton it.