Four Years Later (One Week Girlfriend #4)(52)
Author: Monica Murphy

“Come on, Owen. This has everything to do with that little tutor of yours, right? At least, that’s what Des said,” Wade accuses.

Fucking Des. He needs to keep his big mouth shut. “Fine, so it has something to do with Chelsea. But she’s not the only reason I don’t want Des around here as much anymore.” How can I explain this without sounding like a complete whiny little prick? “My mom … you know she’s always coming around. Wanting to smoke a bowl with me or whatever. If I kick the habit, then I’m eliminating half the reason she wants to see me.”

And that hurts. Knowing that Mom has only a couple of reasons in the first place to want to see me, and both of them suck.

“What’s the other reason why she wants to see you?”

“Money. She always needs a handout. She can’t save up even a dollar. If she has change in her pocket, she rushes out and spends it.” I haven’t heard from her in a while. Last time I told her not to contact me for two weeks, and so far she’s holding to it.

But those two weeks are up soon and I don’t doubt for a second she’ll be back in a hot minute, sniffing around and looking for another payout.

“You know if you get rid of the weed, she’ll just ask for more money so she can get it somewhere else,” Wade points out.

I’ve already thought of that. I’ve thought of everything. “That’s fine, then at least it’s not on my hands.”

“Not completely.”

Hell. Wade is right. I hate this. Hate what my mom’s become, what she forces me to do. I’m mean to her and I despise it, but she’s always mean to me first. She gives me no choice. This is our f**ked-up relationship, and I’m jealous as hell of Fable. At least she doesn’t have to deal with Mom. She was strong enough to cut the ties and walk away.

Why can’t I do that? Why do I always feel so damn guilty when she looks at me, begging me for money, for drugs, for a light for her f**king cigarette, for Christ’s sake?

Why does she have to be so f**ked up? Why can’t I have a normal mom like everyone else? I can’t f**king stand her. And it hurts me to even think that, let alone say it out loud.

“Let Des know I’m not mad at him. Just tell him … I need him to stay back, only for a little while. I gotta try and get rid of my mom,” I say, feeling like an ass**le.

“I’ll let him know. I just gotta tell you that if you’re going to try and cut him out of our lives, it would piss me off. I like Des. He’s one of my best friends, too, you know,” Wade says.

“I get it, man. I like Des, too.” Despite the fact that he’s a drug dealer. But who am I to judge, with my white-trash mama and crazy-ass life?

There’s a knock at the door and I leap from the couch to answer it. I find Chelsea standing on my doorstep, cute as hell wearing the 49ers sweatshirt I bought her and black yoga pants, her hair in a high ponytail. She’s clutching a giant brown bag in one hand, a tiny smile teasing the corners of her mouth.

“Hi,” she says softly, her eyes warm, everything about her … beautiful.

Shit. I am so gone over her. I wonder if she feels the same.

“Hey.” I take her free hand and drag her inside, slamming and locking the door behind her. “You look good.”

“I’m dressed like a bum,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“Way to knock the sweatshirt I gave you.” I bring her hand up to my mouth and kiss her knuckles, enjoying the way her eyelids flutter the slightest bit when my mouth touches her skin. “And way to show you’re out to impress me tonight.”

“Owen.” She flicks her head toward where Wade’s sitting on the couch.

I keep forgetting she’s not 100 percent comfortable with us being together in front of someone else. I could care less what Wade says, but that’s because I’ve known him forever.

But my poor, nervous Chelsea hardly knows Wade at all. So I guess I can’t blame her.

“It’s just Wade, Chels.” I drop a kiss to her lips, then take the bag from her hand, surprised it’s so heavy. “What did you bring for dinner?” Whatever it is, it smells damn good. My stomach is growing more demanding by the second.

“Indian food.” She looks pleased with herself. I think she has me all figured out meal-wise. That my diet consists of pizza and fast food and … pizza. Beer and soda and beer and … that’s about it. “I hope you like this place. I’ve only tried them once.”

“I’ve never had Indian food,” I admit as I carry the bag over to the dining table.

“Really?” She sounds incredulous as she walks into the kitchen. “Well, I brought a huge variety of dishes, so hopefully you’ll like something.” She’s grabbing plates and utensils as though she lives here, and I like seeing her move about my house so comfortably. She fits in. I want her here.

I like having her with me.

“Wade, you can join us if you want. Do you like Indian food?” she calls from the kitchen as she pushes up her sleeves, turns on the faucet, and washes her hands.

“I’ve never had it either,” he answers.

“We have so much. You need to come over here and try it. I think you’ll like it.” She shuts off the faucet, dries her hands, then grabs another plate before she brings everything to the table and starts setting it out.

I can’t take my eyes off her. She’s a completely different girl from the one I met only weeks ago. The first version of Chelsea had been shy, quiet, unsure of herself. This version is still a little shy, a little unsure, but there’s something different about her now.

A confidence. It’s in the way she moves, the way she talks, how she looks at me. I can feel it, see it, hear it, and I realize my sweet little Chelsea Rose has blossomed.

And I can’t help but think I’ve been a huge influence in this change.

CHAPTER 17

Chelsea

“God, that was torture,” Owen murmurs the minute his bedroom door shuts behind him. He pulls me into his arms, pressing me against the door as he leans in and kisses me.

I melt into him, curling my arms around his neck, burying my hands in his hair. His mouth on mine, firm yet soft, hot and damp, his tongue sliding against mine—relief mixed with desire floods me at the connection. I’ve waited for this, wanted it all night.

We spent hours out on that couch with Wade sitting right by us, watching some movie I really didn’t pay much attention to. I couldn’t. Owen kept touching me. Innocent little touches that should have meant nothing but instead meant everything.