Page 1 of Call You Mine
CHAPTER 1
AVA
Where the fuckis my underwear?
Squinting my eyes, I try to make out the pieces of clothing lying around the dark carpeted floor. The full moon shining in from the open curtains isn’t enough light to see more than blobs of color haphazardly discarded. The cold winter air coming in through the cracked window raises goosebumps over the exposed skin of my legs, my oversized hoodie covering only just above my mid-thigh.
I bend down, reaching for what I hope is the red fabric of my underwear, lying just under the desk in the corner of the room, only to find it’ssomeoneelse’sred underwear.
What man wears boxer briefs that aren’t black, navy, or gray?
Going down on my knees, I quietly make my way around the bed, crawling on the floor in search of my thong, feeling absolutely ridiculous.
Coming here was a mistake. A moment of weakness.
Or, more accurately,anothermoment of weakness.
I’ve lost count of how many times over these last eight months that I’ve sent the embarrassing “You up?” text, and you would think the excitement and urgency would have dwindled away. Instead, I basically throw my clothes offbefore taking the three steps from the door to his bed every time I’m here—shutting my mind off and sinking into the feeling of just letting go.
Until it’s over, and everything I’ve tried to clear of my mind comes rushing back.
I should go, leave my underwear behind, and get out of here before he wakes up—I’ve done it before.
More times than I’d care to admit.
But before I can make the decision, a deep rasp breaks through the silence, and I freeze mid-crawl. “Going somewhere?”
Slowly looking up, the moonlight cascades perfectly over those caramel eyes, that angular jaw, that messy brown hair that’s always falling over his forehead, even more messy from my fingers running through it just an hour ago.
Anderson Montgomery.
My one-night stand—turnedI’ve lost count of how many nights.
It takes me a second to respond to him. The smirk on his face as he holds his head up with his forearm has me wishing I’d never left his bed in the first place.
A ridiculous thought.
I got mine. He got his.
Now it’s time for me to go.
“I have to be?—”
“Up early for work,” Anderson finishes for me, rolling onto his back until I can no longer see him.
“You’re catching on quickly.” I keep my voice light, lifting the blanket falling over the edge of the bed. Leaning down to check underneath, a sliver of unwelcome guilt forms in my stomach at my little white lie.
The one I tell him every time I leave in the middle of the night.
It’s not entirely a lie; I do have to be up early to open the coffee shop tomorrow, and the people-pleasing tendenciesI’ve had for as long as I can remember are hard habits to break.
But the truth is, I don’t sleep in other people’s beds.
And I shouldn’t feel guilty for setting this boundary. Sleeping in my own room and under my own sheets, along with my routines I stick to before I go to bed and when I wake up, are ways I’ve learned to make me feel like I havesomesemblance of control in life.
Control that I need to stay sane.
Control that I need to survive.
