The Carrero Heart - Beginning (Friends to Lovers)

I spend the morning filling out applications and emailing Jake’s assistant back, over apartments she’s sent me to look over. Choosing a couple that I think look nice I tell her to set me up viewings for as soon as possible. One of them is small, close to the school, and looks cozy and easy to maintain. My instant gut reaction to the pictures is that it is more than a possibility.

Arrick came back so late last night I didn’t even hear him come home. Sound asleep and oblivious to what time he came back after tossing and turning myself into unconsciousness. I don’t want to know anything about where they were, what they said, or what they did. I don’t even want to know what time he showed up, because my mind will probably point in directions that kill me, about what they could’ve been doing half the night at her apartment. I’m so not able to cope with that kind of agony nowadays; somehow knowing they did that stuff in the past was more manageable. I could ignore it, but now, I think I may actually cry myself to death if he admits that is what he’s was doing all night.

He must have got up before six this morning, for the gym, or to meet his trainer, as he was gone before I surfaced but signs that he has been here are all over the place. His clothes in the laundry, dishes in the sink from making a smoothie and his bed is all messed up too, not that I went in there to check; his door was open when I got up, and I couldn’t help but see.

I assume he’s at the gym or with his trainer still, seeing as it’s now after ten and there is literally no sign of him. I thought about calling his cell but really, what point is there? It’s not like I need him to tell me where he is or have reason to see him. No reason to want to know. Well, except that I do … but it’s not my right. He has his own life; he doesn’t answer to me or even needs to. He doesn’t even need to tell me if he had sex with her, after all, it’s only my heart that makes me feel like he should. Not his.

I throw my notebook aside, the one I’ve been doodling dresses in, between answering emails and watching daytime TV listlessly. I’m restless and unsettled, and even the arrival of his housekeeper at eight am. for an hour has done little to amuse me. The woman barely spoke, nodded, and smiled, gave me some pancakes as she left and that was it. House back to immaculate, beds made, laundry is gone, as though he was never home, and I’m sat like a third wheel in his empty apartment, driving myself crazy with tormenting thoughts about him banging Natasha.

expense. I give up on that little conversation quickly, not in the mood to deal with whatever is up with her. Probably another tiff with her husband and I wonder how on earth he still puts up with her. Leila is a cyclone and Hunter is just way too

off. I thought we were friends, of sorts, but I guess she is just another shallow asshole who probably spiked my drink that night, and I’m better off shot of her. Like everyone I ever became friends with, I didn’t invest enough emotion to actually care that she is no

to see him and suddenly flustered that he’s back, yet not ready either. After waiting agonizingly for hours, I’m faced with nerves and so not sure how to behave. I smooth my hair, fix my dress, and sit down again once more, hauling over my notebook in a bid to look busy and not at all bothered by his absence. Heart hammering through my chest, eyes glancing to the doors, and I try to look anything but antsy and

his way. I can see him from the corner of my eye, carrying a gym bag, dressed in sweats and a tee, and I can smell fresh shower gel and body spray almost immediately. Wafting my way in the air and try not to sigh at his familiar scents. He’s drinking from a water bottle, head tilted back and not really focused on my

be any other way and this is just a normal everyday morning of him coming home to me in his apartment. I glance up, smile tightly, and go back to what I’m doing. Not sure if I’m meant to be pissed or not anymore. I’ve lost track of whatever our last mood was, and to be honest, I am too exhausted for this. I want things between us to be normal again, for him to flop down and make me laugh, or make me forget anything about where he was all night. I drop my chin and continue one of the sketches I’ve been playing with,

face almost against my cheek and I’m suddenly overwhelmed by both the proximity and the smell of him, when it’s right here, breathing distance away, nosing at what I’m doing. I frown up at him and shove his face away immaturely, impulsively, with a hand under his chin,

in the air on its side so I can’t reach. Placing a hand on my shoulder as I try to stand on the couch to get it back, but he pushes me to my knees and holds it higher