Page 21 of Beautiful Deceit
He laughs with no humor, "Everyone." I don't have time to absorb his meaning, because there's a metallic tapping sound coming from the door. I look up to see a uniformed police officer holding a flashlight to the door frame.
I stammer through a rundown of what happened. The officer tells me to be careful and make sure no one is working alone, especially at night. I barely make eye contact with the officer during my explanation.
Beau takes over at one point, casting a curious glance at me while doing so. They promise to circle the block a few times to make sure the couple is out of the area. There haven't been any reports of a robbery in the area, so hopefully they were scared away.
"You all set here for tonight?" Beau asks when the officer finally leaves.
"I just need to lock up."
I’ve only taken a few steps when he asks, "Who are you hiding from Sammy?" I know I owe him some explanation for my actions tonight, but I don’t know if I can give it. To trust someone with that is going too far, but I don't have to tell him all my secrets. I want him to stick around. Maybe if he knew why I'm so paranoid, he'd understand me better. I mean he did already stick around after I accused him of stalking me.
I blow out a long breath.
"It's kinda a fucked up story." I mimic his words from earlier.
He shrugs, "Aren't they all?" His dismissive tone is just what I need.
"I've got a pan of brownies and an unopened carton of ice cream at home, you game?" I don’t know why I’m offering, but I really don’t want to have this conversation at my store.
His hand rubs over his flat tummy "Do I have to share?" He jokes.
I lock up the store and we walk the few blocks to my studio.
My space feelsten times smaller with him in it. I rush up the stairs, a little self-conscious of walking with my back to him. I fumble with the locks. I never have company so I'm trying to remember if I've left anything embarrassing laying on the floor. My bed isn't made; I never make it. A bedroom door might be handy at this point.
I open the door slowly and warn him, "I left in a hurry this morning, and I wasn't expecting anyone to come over." I flip the switch next to the door and he gets his first look at my place.
Studio probably isn't the right word to describe my home. It's more of a loft, but the high ceilings are finished, so it lacks the typical industrial vibe. There are a few columns that have been painted bright turquoise, then painted over with a soft white. Both paint jobs are old and chipped, the bright color peeks through the white. I like it. It gives a pop of color around the large space, making it seem a bit smaller. I put my keys in an old China bowl that is placed on a table by the door. They clink against the porcelain.
I look around the room. My decor is mismatched and decidedly shabby chic. My large TV and kitchen appliances are the only "modern" elements. I didn’t replace many of the old fixtures but was forced to replace much of the kitchen.
I rush to my bedroom area as I see something I don’t want in sight.
I call back, "Make yourself at home." I snatch up the bras that I've hung on the white scrolled footboard to my bed. With my arms full, I kick the panties I took off last night under the bed. I pull open the massive wardrobe I use as a closet and toss everything in, shutting the door. I tug on my silver sheet that is pooled at the end of the bed, along with the light lavender down comforter. When they both come up, a black nighty plops out onto the floor.
Beau's footsteps sound close. I could try to shove it under the blanket, but it's no use because he can see every movement I make. I leave it and hope he doesn't notice. I don't even know why I'm hiding this stuff. It's obvious I wear a bra, and so what if I like pretty underwear?
I look around and try imaging that it's my first time seeing this place. The impression it gives is comfortable, a little rustic, and really feminine.
I walk away from my bed and make my way to the kitchen. My cabinets are made from reclaimed wood from a barn upstate. Some pieces still have red or blue flecks from the original paint, but the years of outdoor wear has given them a grayish patina.
I pull a couple bottled waters from the fridge.
"You want something to drink? I don't have any soda." I extend one of the bottles hoping he'll move away from his current station at my bookshelf. It’s a bit extensive, as it goes all the way up to my ceiling and wraps around the side of the wall, ending near my bed.
He walks over, taking in his surroundings. "You own this place too?"
"Mm-mm. Not the building, just the studio."
When he gets close, he takes the water from my hand, his fingers brushing mine before he pulls away.
"I think people use studio to describe three hundred square foot boxes, not a fifteen hundred square foot loft." One of his eyebrows lifts, while his green eyes twinkle.
"Loft never felt right to me. When I think loft, I think warehouse or industrial, so I call it my studio."
The pan of brownies I made last night are sitting on the counter. I wash my hands and grab some bowls.
"You want ice cream?"
