Disclaimer: Twilight and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is my doing. Please do not repost the story without authorization.
Word Prompt: Ticket
Not beta'd.
I reheat some leftover pasta and pour myself a glass of wine. What I really want is a bath, but I'm uncomfortably hungry and the wine will go directly to my head if I don't put some food in my stomach. Once I'm done eating, I fill the tub with steaming water and add Warm Vanilla Sugar bubble bath, just the ticket to dissolve the day away. A refill of my Pinot Grigio will obliterate any residual edge while I soak. My phone is tucked safely under my towel, just in case. I don't expect to hear from Masen, but if he does contact me, I want to be able to answer.
The last thing I do before I slip into the water is put on some Chopin. By the time Piano Concerto No. 1 ends, the bath water is cool, my glass is empty, and I'm thoroughly relaxed.
I shrug into my robe and curl up on the couch to finish my reading. The words in front of my eyes are brilliant, but my attention wavers. The notes I'm taking suffer, too, not nearly as detailed as they should be. I blame the wine so I won't have to acknowledge the real reason for my distracted state.
The evening becomes morning before I accept that he's not going to call or text. I feel shitty all over again because the whole thing is my fault. I went too far—asked too much of him—and it doesn't matter if I was doing it for the right reasons. The blame is still mine.
Stretching out, I press my cheek into the soft velvet upholstery and succumb to the defeated feeling that is transfusing my body. Even though I have no idea whether he'll come in the morning, tomorrow is another day, and I can't stop it from coming. My heavy eyes close of their own accord.
A soft knock on the door wakes me. I amble off the couch, squinting against the dim morning light to read the stove clock. It's just after 6:00 AM.
The moment I peek around the door, he thrusts a box at me. His blazing eyes scream unspoken apologies. I invite him in with a wave, and step aside so he can get by.
This may be my only shot to say something, so I take it. "I'm so sorry. None of this is your—"
"Bella."
"Please just let me say this. None of this is your fault. You had every right to be angry with me after the way I behaved. I should have told you when I accidentally saw the picture of you and Rosalie on your phone. Instead, I mistakenly assumed she was your girlfriend, and I was… well, I was jealous." The heat of my blush flashes up my neck and across my cheeks, and I can't look him in the eye any longer. I walk to the couch and begin to straighten up the books I left scattered on the floor and table last night. "I'm sorry that I pushed you yesterday. I want to know you, but you don't owe me any explanations. You don't owe me anything, not even a ride."
When I turn around, he's staring at me, but not at my face. His eyes are transfixed on the spot where the silver fabric of my robe ends and my bare skin begins, a little higher than mid-thigh. I don't kid myself when it comes to my looks. I'm not tall or leggy, and there is nothing remarkable about my face. I'm generally described as 'cute,' as much as I wish it were something more sirenlike. My best feature is my hair, and clearly that's not what has Masen's attention. I've never witnessed anyone looking so lustfully at me.
"It was very kind of you to ask your sister to pick me up last night, given what happened between us," I add, trying to subtly refocus him on our conversation.
His eyes dart to my face and back down to my thighs where they linger. I'm a little worried about embarrassing him by drawing attention to what he's doing, though if he's aware of his behaviour, he doesn't seem to mind that he's been caught. I spin around to give him time to snap out of it, bending over to pick up the last of my textbooks off the ground. When he groans quietly, I realize I've probably just flashed him most of my thighs, if not the bottom of my ass cheeks and panties. I should be self-conscious, but I'm not. How could I be when he's looking at me exactly the way I want him to?
My arms encircle my copy of Much Ado About Nothing and hold it tight against my chest. I square my shoulders and face him, ready to wait him out. I don't know what else to do.
A/N: Thanks to everyone who's reading and reviewing. I'm out of town tomorrow, so I won't be posting anything until at least Sunday or Monday.
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