Until You’re Mine

In two years, we’ll be together again. You’ll become my fiancée seven years after that, and my wife a year later.

Yeah, if my heart were a room, there’d be a plaque hanging right at the entrance, brightly engraved with those words. It would be blazing—literally glowing in flames.

Those were the parting words of my ex-boyfriend, and to this day, they still haunt me—partly because they fill me with so much regret. I’d say it feels as though I’ve lost a part of myself, but that would be too cheesy, wouldn’t it? And I’m not the cheesy type. I’m the kind of gal who faces the truth: the little romance I had ten years ago was sweet and nice, but it’s gone—just like Miguel Adrian Enrique Fitz-James Stuart y Martínez de Irujo walked out of my life and never looked back. Well, except for that one time he dropped in Boston enroute to Toronto and he called to let me know he was was in town for a day

My sixteen-year-old boyfriend at the time had everything mapped out, and I fell for it, hook, line, and sinker. What did he say again? Oh, right:

Don’t be so shocked when it happens. I don’t take my promises lightly, and this is a promise. We’ll meet up at Yale. I know it’s your dad’s alma mater, and they’re pretty good with the performing arts. They also excel in medicine, so we can study together. Medical school may take longer than four years, so I’ll give myself seven. When I’m done, I’ll propose in a way you can’t resist.

I’m hopeless for committing all that to memory, I know. I was fifteen, and he was the hottest boy to ever walk the planet, I swear. I happen to know he’s grown into a total heartthrob now. I mean, he’s a hot topic in all these popular magazines, whether it’s fashion or business. Yeah, it’s sad that I know this much about him when he’d probably go, ‘Eloise who?’ if we ever meet again.

To answer your question: yes, I have saved a few cutouts from those magazine on my wall... okay, fine. A lot. I know what you’re thinking, but no—I don’t care to hear any more opinions about why I’d decorate my room with him. I’ve already heard enough of that from Lila, my best friend. Lucky her—she’s had more boyfriends than she can count since Doug, her high school sweetheart who dumped her when he got into an Ivy League school, because she can move past a heartbreak like it’s just another stepping stone on her way to the real deal.

She actually met the real deal three years ago: a genius aeronaut with a solid chance of becoming the first man to be sent to Mars on the NASA Artemis Program. Lila is not thrilled about that, especially now that they have their adorable baby girl, Nina, my goddaughter.

Back to why my ex is basically all you see when you step into my room, as if I’ve dedicated it to him like some sort of shrine. He’s there simply because there was a time I believed it all—his enchanting smile, those hazel eyes that always seemed to hide some secret, and his out-of-this-world good looks paired with that chivalrous European charm.

But it’s not like that anymore! He’s still on my walls simply because I don’t see the need to waste time and energy, and money, putting up new wallpaper when I hardly even use the room. I mostly stay at my dad’s, even though I pay good money in rent for that place. Dad’s is way more spacious, has a pool, and comes with a doting daddy.

Also, instead of a twenty-six-year-old horny girl who’s constantly having sex in the next room, separated from me by just a flimsy wooden partition, I have a fifty-year-old man for a roommate. Yeah, I’ll stick with Dad’s place, thanks.

I heard muttered voices from outside, followed by a sudden squeal of giggles. I rolled my eyes. Betsy’s back—and hey, she’s got a guy with her. Seriously, does Betsy ever think about me at all, or does she just assume I’m deaf when she has a man fondling her?

I was going to make myself a sandwich since I was starting to feel hungry, running over the speech I’m supposed to deliver to the entire Massachusetts state—hell, maybe even the whole world—tomorrow, apologizing on behalf of Brans-Chocolate, my employer.

But with Betsy and Fling Number thirty-three in the house, it’s probably best I stay in my room. They could literally be doing it anywhere. I’ve even run into them in the bathroom once. That was the moment I decided on Dad’s place unless I can’t make it there. In this case, Dad’s on a business trip in Madrid for a book launch, and I didn’t want to stay in the house alone.

God, Madrid. Where Miguel is. It doesn’t bother me at all that, after all these years, my heart still leaps when the city is mentioned. It’s one huge reason I still say no when Dad invites me to visit the city with him, even though he does have some of biggest launches there (the Spanish are big fans of mystery novels), and I could go for support. Well, that reason, and my job—the real one. Not the author thing, which honestly hasn’t gotten me anywhere. Once upon a time, I thought romance novels sold off the shelf like hotcakes. Fun secret behind their success: they have to contain a lot more details about the thing I was unwilling to write about, and so severely edited out at the last minute—just in case Miguel was ever to get his hands on it and figure out I actually wrote a book about him. Thinking back, the Maplehurst High competition project that was auctioned off and bought by his dad—may he rest in peace—was bad enough. I may have used a pen name, but when the same publishing company that publishes B. Thomas’ mystery novels is behind it, he’d know without a doubt. After that one book I wrote that just hovered over the low mark, I shelved my writing. I had my studies to focus on after all; sitting for the bar wasn’t a joke. Then too, there was my life to live.

It’ll be 2:37 in the morning in Madrid. I can’t even call Dad on FaceTime. Hungry, lonely, and utterly miserable, I closed the lid on my laptop and burrowed under my blanket. At least that is comfortable. Unfortunately, my house companions aren’t about to let me have peace. More giggles, more muttered voices, and then the groans and moans begin. Shortly after, the bed starts creaking rhythmically. The creaking might’ve lulled me to sleep—if they aren’t so loud.

Another downside of living next to a sex slave: you’re constantly driven to think about sex, even when all you want is to sleep—or stress over how you might lose your job tomorrow for saying something snarky that reveals just how much disgust you hold for your boss in front of the entire world. You can’t listen to all those wails caught in the throes of passion without your mind drifting to the thought of being pressed against a hard body. Most times, I try to drown out the noise from her room with some ear-splitting hard rock—pretty sure it kills the vibe for them too because their show often ends soon after mine is up. Luckily for Number Thirty-three, my mean streak was at its weakest tonight. I just rolled onto my stomach, shoved a pillow over my head, and tried to sleep.

Two minutes later, I was up again. I judged it’d been that short because Betsy was still screaming my ears off, and the bed creaking hadn’t stopped—unless, maybe, they’d already wrapped up round one and had jumped into round two. Was two minutes enough time to conjure that horrid dream of Miguel slipping into my bed naked and pummeling me into the mattress like what was happening to my roommate one flimsy wooden partition away? I guessed all the loud groans and moans I left unrestrained managed to worm their way into my head.

After one annoyingly loud, canine roar from Number Thirty-three that nearly made me slam my fist against the partition, there was blessed silence. Hopefully, that was it—the grand finale—and maybe now we could all get some rest.

The room was freezing cold with the AC blasting, yet stifling hot at the same time, and my throat was dry. I sneaked out of my room to go get water. Not wanting to risk drawing attention, I left the lights off and crept silently through the darkness toward the kitchen, only to find it in full glow. I did groan in exasperation then. I contemplated running back to my room but I was too patched to ignore my thirst. I decided to do what I had to do.

Number Thirty-three was guzzling my orange juice straight from the bottle like a desert traveler who hasn’t had a drop in days. He’d commandeered our tiny two-seater table as a stool, one of his large feet resting on a chair like a footrest. He should have know the orange juice didn’t belong to his squeeze. Call me territorial, but everything I put in that fridge has my name on it, and I was pretty sure he could read the sticker that says Eloise in large, bold letter on the bottle when he picked it. Oh, what the hell. It was one of the many things I have to put up with renting a room on the other side of town and sharing it.

“Hey,” he slurred as I stepped into the room.

I shot him a hard look, deliberately ignoring his attempt at a greeting.

“You must be the roommate. Wow, you’re actually a lot more hotter than I imagined. She made me picture someone so... drub.”

Another sharp glare aimed at him as I retrieved a glass from the tray.

An intelligent person might have taken the hint and given up engaging me by now, but let’s face it, irrespective of how nicely we try to put it, some bartenders are just too dumb! This one in particular, and I could instantly see why Betsy was s into him.

He scratched at the wet trail left by the juice trickling down his chest, then let out a smug little chortle. “Hope we weren’t too loud. We got... carried away. You know how it is. I’m sure you’ve been there.”

Ass.

He slid off the table, edging closer to me and the fridge. I clenched my teeth and started counting to ten in my head, willing myself not to snap and knock his skull off with my heel.

“So, you’re Eloise. Sounds grand like a queen’s name, in the line of Elizabeth, Catherine. And you work as a lawyer for Brans-Chocolate. Lawyer—that’s fancy. I haven’t had a very personal relationship with a lawyer, but it sounds like fun.”

The way the word personal rolled off his tongue made my skin crawl.

Sure, he wasn’t bad-looking, but he was wearing ripped, baggy jeans, a rugged beard, and was covered in tattoos, and looked like a thud who picks pockets for a living. Anything personal with him will be asking him to wipe down my table at the bar. Don’t call me a snob—my taste has become simply too refined with the caliber of boyfriends I’ve had.

“You must be the first corporate girl this apartment has seen. Bets is lucky to have found you. You’re way better than those gals from the bar. How did she find you anyway?”

By getting her mum—my mum’s sister—to approach me about this great place near Brans-Chocolate, where I work, that was suddenly up for rent, leaving out the part where it was the place she had been living in with two friends, none of whom could afford the rent anymore. Her plan was to get me to pay the full rent so she could encroach, and, of course, I fell right into it.

I gobbled down two glasses of water, slid the bottle back into the fridge, and turned to leave.

He was in the way.

Excuse me?

“The waitresses are fan. How about the lawyers? Care to show me?”

My gaze narrowed into slits. The dumbass isn’t dreaming what I think he’s dreaming, is he? Before I could swing my leg and put him in his place, Betsy rounded the corner.

“Oh hey, El. I didn’t know you were up. And I see you’ve met Jesse,” she said, her voice syrupy sweet, like Mandy Moore about to belt out Only Hope. I suppose that singing voice came with the barbie-like looks.

Betsy and I are somewhat similar in appearance. You can easily tell we’re related. We both can’t gain weight, standing around the average height of 5′7", 5′8". But while I have the kind of looks that is forgettable, she was graced with sun-kissed golden blonde hair and those lovely summer-blue eyes that have churned out models in my mother’s side of the family, including both our mothers. And, if she does better job kissing up to her manager, or moving to New York, her too.

I waved as she dragged her boy-toy away, then shuffled back to bed. I collapsed into it and just died. If they ever did it, I was dead to the world.