Obsessive Compulsion (7 page)

I snort at that because, well, I know plenty
about Kyle’s
merits
. She doesn’t smile or blush this time,
but she does continue whipping my back for overstepping.

“However, just ‘cause you and Emma are
buddies now and talkin’ ‘bout me,” her mixed Oklahoma-Texas accent
thickens, and damn me if it doesn’t turn me on like a fucking light
bulb. “It don’t mean you know shit ‘bout me or my life, Rider.”

A few students have stopped in the space
between doors, pretending to examine their smartphones while they
listen in on Charlie giving me a solid ass-kicking. I lower my head
and nod. “You’re right. I don’t. That’s why I want to have lunch
with you, and maybe dinner? If we’re going to try
this
, I
want to get to know you, from you, if you’ll let me in.”

My throat chokes. Why did I just say ‘let me
in’? Now I sound like my damn therapist.

I cringe inwardly, waiting for Charlie’s
full flames to manifest. When she gets mad, she brings the fires of
Hades with her. It’s a glorious sight to behold, but I never wanted
to be on the receiving end.

To my relieved surprise, she relaxes into my
touch. “Alright. I guess since I’m stranded here without a ride,
you can pick me up at eleven for lunch.”

“I’d like that.” I’d like to kiss her, too,
but now we’re in public. My ticks do not mix with public displays
of affection. Though, for Charlie… “I’ll be here. Have a good
class.”

“Thanks,” she smiles then heads into the
building while I stand there, stuck between the doorways. My feet
are planted in place, because I looked down only to notice the
bastards used those horribly tiny floor tiles and not a single one
of them is straight.

Lunch turned out to be Ian and I eating sub
sandwiches at Shoe Village. He apologized for the arrangement, and
I told him again to stop apologizing. Saul was supposed to be
supervising the framers with Ian, which is why Ian thought he’d be
able to get away for an hour. Saul hadn’t shown up, however, with
only a hint that something had happened with his sister. Ian said
that Kyle was unreachable and Brandon was working on a contract in
Plano with Victoria.

Ian had been understandably frustrated, and
I wondered if he was the glue that held the whole company together.
So, I ate my sub, watched the framers and talked casually with him
about what they were doing. It’d been a nice lunch and a pleasant
conversation that somehow led to my currently pissed-off mood.

I’m sitting in a really fancy Italian
restaurant. The kind with napkin rings, wine glasses next to water
glasses and a basket of fresh breadsticks. They’re garlic-buttered
breadsticks, too. I should be all smiles and drooling over the
authentic Italian menu choices, but instead, I’m brooding and
glaring at the empty seat across from me.

Ian is late.
Forty-five minutes
late.

Our lunch on Monday led to breakfast on
Tuesday before my classes, then pregnant Pamela popped (yes,
someone posted that on the announcement board outside her office
door), so I had to pick up her extra classes on Wednesday. It meant
less time at Shoe Village, but I really need the money. We had
agreed to meet here, at
Alphonse,
at seven on the dot. It’s
now a quarter to eight and Ian is a no show.

This isn’t the first time I’ve been stood
up, but I hadn’t been expecting it from Ian. He’d given me no
indication that he wasn’t enjoying our conversations and ‘dates
that aren’t being labeled as dates’ as much as I was. But, here I
sit. Just me and the breadsticks, and my second glass of wine. The
sympathetic looks from the wait staff are really starting to get on
my nerves.

With a deep inhale, I pull out my phone and
do something I’ve never done when being stood up. I message Ian to
see what happened. Normally, I would just chalk it up to the guy
being a cowardly dick, but this time I can’t attach that idea to
Ian.

‘
Where are you?’
I type in and hit
send.

Five minutes go by with two more sips of
wine before he replies. ‘
At home.’

Oh. Well. What does one say to that? Maybe
he forgot? I’m about to text a reminder, when another message from
him pops up.

‘
I’m sorry. I can’t.

I want to.

I suck.

I’m sorry.’

His staccato messages don’t fit his
character at all. Now I’m worried. ‘
Give me your
address.’

I clutch my phone and wait, ignoring the sad
eyes from the blonde girl serving really awesome smelling Italian
Wedding Soup to the couple one table over. And wait. And wait.

Ten minutes go by, I give in, square up my
bill for the wine and leave the restaurant hungry. I’m getting
settled into my car when my phone chimes. Fishing it out of my
purse, I look at it, smile and pull out of the parking lot.

Alright, Mr. Rider, I’m gonna be patient
and try to be understanding.
My stomach growls to remind me why
I should still be a little angry. Damn, that soup smelled good.

Ian’s building is a rather nice looking
mid-rise in Dallas’s West End. It actually sits against the Trinity
waterfront. I grin and forget my rumbling tummy, because I’m
admittedly a bit impressed. This is an artist-nerd’s dream area.
Right across the river are the museums, Market Center, kick-ass
shopping and the Spaghetti Factory!

Okay, so maybe it’s just
my
dream
area. I like that it’s across the river though. His building is
looking
at
Dallas without being right in the middle
of
Dallas, which can be a noisy, traffic-infested and
stress-inducing nightmare sometimes.

I’d actually looked at getting an apartment
in this area for me and Emma when I first came back to Dallas. It’s
quieter, ten minutes closer to the university and way too expensive
for my ramen noodle budget. So, I ended up in Deep Ellum thanks to
a friend who knows the building owner. I don’t really mind Deep
Ellum, except on weekends when I’m trying to sleep.

After a short elevator ride up to the sixth
floor, I head down a white-tiled hallway to the apartment at the
end. With a deep inhale to calm my nerves, the simmering anger and
the nudges from my hunger, I knock on the door and wait. Deep
breath again.

Resist the urge to pound down Ian’s door,
Charlie
. Maybe he’s naked and is looking for clothes.

That image is so not helping my impatience.
Ever since getting an eyeful of his bare chest and arms, I’ve been
dying to see the rest. And touch it, too. And taste it. And…

The door lock clicks. Then clicks again. It
clicks several more times before going silent. God, I can’t imagine
living with OCD. That thought washes away any lingering anger. I
square my shoulders and put on a smile for him as the door
opens.

My smile falters. I’ve never seen Ian
looking so disheveled. He has a loose, red tie around his neck that
hangs between an unbuttoned white dress shirt, revealing a white
tank top underneath. His black slacks are pressed, but he’s
beltless, shoeless and one of his socks has a hole from which his
big toe is sticking out. The sandy strands of his hair are a mess,
looking as if he’s been constantly running his hands through
them.

“Are you alright?” I’m more than just
concerned now as he stands in the doorway, looking at me like I
shouldn’t be here.

After a debate I can see taking place in his
eyes, he lets out a breath, lowers his head and steps aside to let
me into his apartment. “No. I’m not alright. I’m a complete
mess.”

“I can see that,” I try to lighten the mood
a bit as I step inside. He snorts at my comment then closes the
door and clicks the lock. Twelve times.

He then steps away, lets out a noise of
frustration and goes back to the lock. Ten more clicks. Pause. Two
more. I wait patiently, not watching him do it.

Instead, I focus on the apartment. It’s
immaculate. Clean lines, zero clutter, white and crisp. I giggle a
bit on the inside. It’s just like Ian.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs behind me, having
finally won the battle with his door.

“Stop…”

“Apologizing,” he finishes with another
sigh. “I know. I’m sor… I’m trying. Can I take your jacket?”

“Please.” I unsnap the front and slide it
off as he takes it from my shoulders to hang it in a closet next to
the front door. The first room on the left is a galley style
kitchen with a dining alcove at the end that then turns into the
living room. I could go straight down the entry hall to the couch I
see peaking around the corner, but I turn and set my purse on the
grey stone kitchen counter. “This kitchen is really nice. Are those
restaurant grade appliances?”

“They are,” he confirms, stepping past me.
“Not that I ever use them. This is one of Brandon’s first
conversions. It used to be a hotel. He insisted on using top grade
appliances and furnishings. Nearly blew our budget, but it ended up
being a good idea.”

“Maybe you should let Brandon know your
stove is broken?” I point at the dead digital readout.

“Unplugged, actually.” He twitches,
side-glancing me. Pointing to a countertop two-burner stove that’s
plugged into the same surge protector as his microwave, toaster and
coffee maker, he gives a stuttered laugh. “I… It’s easier than
trying to crawl behind the stove every night to unplug it from the
specialty amp outlet it uses.”

“Every night?” My eyebrow raises, then I put
all the context clues together. “You unplug all your kitchen
appliances every night?”

“No,” his head lowers, shoulders slumping.
“I unplug
everything,
every single night.”

I digest that concept for a moment then
shrug it off. It’s weird, but it’s part of Ian’s disorder. I have
no right to judge him for it. “Do you use surge protectors like
that to make it easier?”

His gaze snaps up to mine and I can tell
he’s relieved I’m not freaking out about it. “Yeah, where I can.
Like my kitchen and my entertainment center.”

“Clever,” I give him a reassuring smile that
it really is no big deal. My traitorous stomach picks that time to
interrupt the relaxing tension between us. “Er, sorry. My stomach
has no manners.”

“Shit,” he curses. “I… have,” he casts his
gaze about his kitchen, “…absolutely nothing. Unless you like mac
n’ cheese.”

“Love it.”

He blinks at me slowly, as if he’s trying to
determine if what I said was in his imagination or not, then he
snorts with a shake of the head and grabs a pot. Filling it with
water and setting it on the little countertop stove, he focuses on
the water. “I won’t say I’m sorry about tonight, because you don’t
want me to, but I really am.”

I lean on the counter next to him, looking
back over his appearance. “Want to tell me what happened?”

His eyes don’t leave the water. “I don’t do
dates so well. Well, restaurant dates. Or anything public for that
matter. First, I couldn’t figure out what color tie to wear, then
all I could think about was how you were going to be sitting across
from me, being forced to watch as I examined the silverware,
cleaned it, then asked for a new set, twice. Then I would turn my
plate counter clockwise, find something wrong with it and ask for
another. I would embarrass you. Over and over. All while wearing
mismatched socks because this pair has a damn hole in them.”

I let out a slow breath. “Ian, why did you
ask me to
Alphonse
in the first place if you don’t like
going to restaurants?”

“Because you deserve it,” he states, still
staring at the water. His cheeks darken red then his fingers curl
into his palms. “You deserve someone who can take you to a normal
restaurant for a normal date.”

“I’ll be honest,” I start and he flinches.
“That restaurant was nice and the food smelt amazing. I also
typically have ramen noodles on the nights I’m out of tuna. Mac n’
cheese is a splurge for me, and I like the idea of eating with you
in your quiet apartment instead of under the stares of underpaid
wait staff.”

He doesn’t say anything for a long time. He
just stares at the heating water, waiting for something to happen,
but I’m not going to push. I wait, and eventually his lips move and
a barely audible question leaves them. “You really don’t mind?”

“I really don’t mind. There’s a catch,
however,” I lean in a bit closer and he finally takes his gaze off
the water to look up at me. “You owe me at least a kiss for makin’
me wait for forty-five minutes while you tried on ties.”

I watch with satisfaction as his mouth hangs
open. The expression on his face is one I’ll never forget. He’s
relieved I’m not angry. There is a hint of timid disbelief.
Astonishment. It’s so sweet and genuine. I close my eyes and wait
for him to take the acceptance I’m offering.

The kitchen goes quiet. The only sound comes
from the warming heat element beneath the pot, clicking and
cracking in its efforts to boil water. A minute passes by, maybe
more, but I force myself to wait. This man tries every single bit
of my patience, but I want to give him all I have. Just as I’m
about to peek, his lips brush mine. A second later, he’s kissing me
deeply with a shared moan between us.

My hands clench the sides of my skirt,
resisting the urge to run up his arms and grip his shoulders. I
want so desperately to hold this man in my arms, to feel his body
against mine. Judging by the way he’s devouring me with this kiss,
breathing with me in every breath I take, I believe he wants to
hold me, too.

But he can’t. His hang-ups are holding him
back, but I’m not going to give up on him. I’m gonna fight my
impatience, I’m gonna continue the death-grip on my skirt and I’m
just gonna let him kiss me whatever way he can.

Because, damn, this is some kiss. Tornado
Charlie is being given a run for her money by Hurricane Ian. He’s
taking all the wind from my lungs then giving it back to me with a
passion I had no idea this straight-edged, crisp and proper man was
capable of.