Page 2 of Miss Behaved
Steven is an artist, but he’s definitely not starving. His paintings sell for twenty grand a pop, and his apartment is proof. The large open space is bathed in a golden glow, and that alone fills me with excitement.
“Steven,” I call out, but he doesn’t hear me.
If I’d written this scene, he’d have been on bended knee when I came in the door, but he’s nowhere to be found. Maybe it’s because he’s the creative type and he’s after the big reveal.
The petals continue toward the bedroom, and my tummy does little somersaults. I follow the carpeted path as the music grows louder. Every step down the hallway paves the path to the next phase, and my future. No more pining after other people’s happy endings—I’m getting my own.
“Steven?”
Still no answer. I wonder if he’s kneeling down and overcome with my same anticipation.
Looking down at my outfit, I realize I should have changed. Ripped jeans and a beaded tank isn’t ideal attire for this situation. Hopefully he hasn’t hired a photographer. If he did, we can always dress up and re-create it later. Pretend I wasn’t fresh off an airplane with no more than mascara on my eyes.
Finally reaching the bedroom door, I pause and take a deep breath. This is it. I can do this. Steven is a good enough guy, and I deserve to finally be happy. I’ve dreamed of this moment, written it more times than I can count. Now all I have to do is turn the handle and experience it myself.
When I open the door, I expect to see Steven in a tux, holding a bouquet of flowers, down on one knee. I at least expect to see his face with a wide smile across it. What I get instead is his bare ass. Correction: his bare ass with a pair of legs wrapped around his hips. It swiftly kicks my jet lag to the curb.
I’m not sure if I gasp or say his name, but something makes Steven turn, and for the first time since we started dating, his flawless, beautiful face doesn’t make my panties melt.
No, I’m seeing red.
“Monica!”
He grabs for the sheet and rolls with it out of the bed, covering himself but leaving a panting redhead exposed in front of me. She fumbles for the covers and pulls them over her naked body, but I’ve seen enough.
Scratch that—I’ve seeneverything.
“Monica,” Steven calls again as I storm back down the hallway. I hear his feet chasing me.
“What?” I spin so fast he almost slams against my chest. “What could you possibly have to say?” I point a finger into his hard pecs, and it pushes him back a step.
His blue eyes are frantic as they dart from my eyes to my lips. He’s chewing the inside of his cheek, like if he could just bite off the right words, he might be able to unwind the situation.
“Well?” I say, standing there when I should have left. Knowing there’s nothing that can actually take this back, even if deep down I wish there were.
“It was an accident,” Steven finally says. He pushes his shoulder-length brown hair off his face to give me a full view of the puppy-dog eyes he’s perfected. “Bethany was here to collect one of my paintings for the next exhibit, and it just happened.”
Bethany, his assistant.
Way to be a stereotype, Steven.
I should have recognized her long red hair, but all I saw was skin, boobs, and dick. There goes my stomach again. Only this time, I might actually throw up.
“An accident?” I laugh because it’s either that or crying, and there’s no way I’m letting this jerk see tears. “Like, you tripped, your clothes fell off your body, and your dick just landed in another woman? Not to mention this is an awful lot of preparation for anaccident. Flowers, candles? I never got those things.”
He opens his mouth, but I’m not done yet.
“Speaking of, when’s the last time you did something nice for me? Even a fraction of this? When I got sick, you avoided me for a week so you wouldn’t catch it. When I got a book deal, you took me to dinner to celebrateyourlatest collection. This entire relationship has been about you, you, you.” I’m stepping toward him now, backing him up. His puppy-dog eyes now show fear. “It’s always been about you—and your dick, apparently.”
Steven looks around with a sour expression, and he must realize he’s screwed, because he clams up. When he tries to reach out for my arm, I back up so hard I hit my hip on the cabinet.
“Ouch.” I bend into the pain and try my best to recover at least a shred of dignity. This is exactly what I need right now. A little physical pain to match the knife going to town on my insides.
“You okay?” He comes forward, but I turn from his grasp.
“Okay isn’t what I would call any of this,” I tell him, my strong facade slipping by the moment.
“Please don’t do this, Moon Pie,” he says. “I care about you. You’re sweet. You take care of me. We look good together.”
