2. Lemon
Chapter 2
Lemon
I can’t sleep. My body just keeps tossing and turning. The sheets cling to my skin like a bad decision, the kind that's familiar and yet unwelcome. I've been rolling in this damn bed for hours, each tick of the clock a personal insult from the universe. This penthouse—Atticus' penthouse is like a frickin' icebox, and it does nothing to cool the hot mess that is in my head right now.
The window in this room overlooks the city and the lights of New Haven come dancing in and out. It mocks me and my restlessness.
"Fuck this," I mutter, kicking off the tangled blankets with a huff. The city below doesn't sleep, so why should I? I push off the mattress, my feet hitting the cold marble floor, goosebumps racing up my calves. Maybe a snack will help, something to shut up the riotous thoughts banging drums in my head since I saw Atticus Reid for the first time in four years.
I’m not a ghost, but damn, I feel like one, drifting through his space. Everything here is sleek, expensive, and screams Atticus Reid in all caps with a period. No bullshit tolerated .
My Uncle Atti, a name I say more out of habit than anything else. He’s not my uncle, never has been. He’s just been the one solid friend my dad had through my life and who showed up whenever Dad told him I had something going on.
That all changed when I went off to college and in the last couple of years, I didn’t really think about it, but I’ve missed him.
Also when did he get so fucking hot? He was always good looking, but it’s like since we’ve been strangers he got fine. Gray hair still showcasing some of his naturally black hair, gray beard, and don’t even get me started on how he fills out a suit.
The penthouse is eerily quiet as I make my way down the hallway. I wonder if he’s asleep. Obviously he’s asleep, Lemon. It’s freaking three in the morning.
I pause at the top of the stairs, looking down at the kitchen that gleams with stainless steel and glass. It's fucking intimidating how clean it is, like a showroom no one's supposed to touch. But hunger is a stronger force than fear, and my stomach growls loud enough to compete with the distant hum of New Haven City traffic.
"Midnight munchies, you're my only salvation," I whisper to myself as I descend the staircase, gripping the railing with more strength than necessary.
I flick the lights on in the kitchen, squinting against the sudden harsh brightness. There's an island big enough to land a small aircraft on, and I lean against it, scanning the pantry like I'm on some sort of culinary mission. Oreos, because of course there are fucking Oreos. Atticus might look like he’s chiseled from marble, but the guy's got a sweet tooth that could rival any twelve-year-old's.
"Vegan and proud, even when it comes to shitty coping mechanisms," I say out loud, grabbing the package and tearing it open with more force than necessary. The smell of chocolate and cream fills the air, a small comfort amidst the chaos of my crappy life right now.
I stuff a cookie into my mouth; the sweetness softening the bitter tang of my mood. Hell, I’d kill for a glass of almond milk right about now. I rummage through the fridge, finding a carton and pouring myself a generous amount. He may like Oreos but he’s also my body is a temple like ninety-seven percent of the time.
The milk washes down the cookies, a temporary balm on the raw edges of my nerves. But it's just me, the snacks, and the night, and I still don’t feel like I can sleep.
I’m mid-chew on another vegan delight when the door swings open, and in walks trouble with legs. That’s the only way to explain the man standing in front of me. Tall, lean like he’s a runner with dark messy hair and eyes that look like pools of honey.
"Jesus!" The word bursts out of me, an Oreo nearly going down the wrong pipe.
"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you." The guy leans against the doorway, an easy smile playing on his lips. "Ezra Stratton," he says, extending a hand that looks like it knows its way around more than just a handshake.
"Uh, Lemon." My voice comes out softer than I want, crushed under the weight of his unexpected presence. I wipe my hands on my pajama shorts, suddenly conscious of every crumb. His grin widens, and I can tell he's one of those guys who thrives on the flustered reactions of others.
"Sweet name for a sweet girl." His comment wraps around me like smoke, and I fight the urge to fan my face. Playful, which means dangerous. I need to steer clear of anything that spells trouble, and he wears trouble like a giant red flag.
"Except lemons are bitter," I counter, trying to match his banter. Ezra chuckles, and it's like warm molasses dripping down my spine.
"Ah, so there's a bite behind that sugar, huh?" He saunters further into the kitchen.
"A little late-night snack of cookies and…milk?" He nods toward the empty glass, that smirk never leaving his face. “How about we upgrade that midnight snack?"
"Upgrade?" I raise an eyebrow, curious despite myself.
"Yeah. Let me make you something better," he says, noticing the doubt in my eyes. "Trust me, it’ll be very satisfying."
I swallow hard. The innuendo isn't lost on me, nor is the way his gaze flicks to my lips before meeting my eyes again.
"Okay," I say hesitantly. "But I'm vegan. I don't want to be any trouble."
"Vegan, huh?" he repeats, nodding thoughtfully. "Don’t worry, I've got just the thing. Take a seat."
"Can I help with anything?" I offer, though part of me just wants to keep watching him, mesmerized by the effortless way he moves.
"Just sit there and look pretty," he says with a smirk. "I've got this covered."
I laugh, biting my lip, and settle back into the stool. The way he commands the space, the confidence in every gesture, it's arousing and I’m reminded that it’s been a while since I’ve had an orgasm.
“Yeah, I'll just—" I wave the package of Oreos like a white flag, "get out of your way."
Ezra's laugh ripples through the air. The timber of it seems to curl around me, warm and inviting. "Bellezza, you could never be in my way."
I slide onto one of the barstools, watching as he moves around the kitchen with practiced ease. He sheds his dress shirt and shoes, leaving him in just a tank top and black slacks. My breath catches as I take in his toned physique, the way his muscles ripple with each movement. It’s impossible not to look, especially as small black ink peeks out. I wonder what his tattoos are and did they hurt.
"Like what you see?" he teases, catching me staring.
"Sorry," I admit, a blush creeping up my neck.
"Seriously, Lemon, relax." His voice dips, intimate, like we're sharing secrets instead of standing in a penthouse kitchen. "It's just food, and I’ve got an appetite for more than what cookies are going to do." He winks, that charm of his hitting me like a shot of whiskey—smooth but potent.
He moves around with practiced ease and I wonder just how close of a friend he is to Uncle Atti. The kitchen fills with the sound of chopping vegetables, the sizzle of oil in a pan. The rich, savory aroma makes my stomach growl in anticipation.
"You're quite the chef," I comment, trying to distract myself from the heat pooling low in my belly.
"I'm a connoisseur of indulgence," he says, sending shivers down my spine as he fingers the knife handle in his hand.
"What’s your favorite dish?" Ezra asks, glancing over his shoulder with a smirk that tells me he's fully aware of the effect he has.
"I don’t really have one," I reply, leaning forward, my elbows on the cool marble, trying to play it cool while heat pools in places I didn't know could blush. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, but I’m not going to tell him I’m the bread, potatoes, and Oreos type of vegan. Let him think I’m some kind of fancy vegan for all I care. I just want to listen to his voice wash over me.
“Hmm, and what have you always wanted to try?” You, but I can’t exactly say that.
“Uh, poke bowls look so good, but they are definitely not vegan.”
A bead of sweat traces the line of his jaw, and I'm fighting the urge to reach out and follow its path with the tip of my finger.
"Hope you're hungry," he says as he sets a plate down in front of me. "Voila, a five-star vegan delight."
"Wow," I breathe, taking in the beautifully arranged dish. "This looks amazing."
"Wait till you taste it," he says, leaning in closer. His proximity sends a shiver down my spine.
"It looks too good to eat," I admit, my tongue flicking over my lips as I envision other things that could be just as satisfying.
"Everything's better when you dive in headfirst." His double entendre hangs between us.
I take a bite; the flavors exploding on my tongue. "Oh my god, this is fucking incredible!"
"Language, Lemon," he chides playfully, but his eyes gleam with pride.
"Sorry, but it's true. This is seriously the best thing I've ever tasted."
"Glad you approve," Ezra murmurs, his gaze lingering on my lips .
I stay quiet as I eat, and Ezra starts telling me about his life beyond these walls. The clink of cutlery against porcelain is a soft soundtrack to the cadence of his voice. It’s hypnotizing the way words roll off his tongue.
I wonder if I could get him to just speak to me until I fall asleep.
"Imagine it," he says with a wicked grin. "The bass so deep you feel it in your bones, bodies moving in sync as if the whole crowd shares one pulse."
I can almost smell the mix of sweat and perfume, hear the laughter and clinking glasses. The Silver Apple, New Haven City's playground for the beautiful and the damned, where every night promises the forbidden fruit of excess. It’s fitting he named the club after the city.
"Sounds intense." My voice is breathless, caught up in the imagery he conjures.
"Intense, exhilarating, addictive." He leans forward, elbows on the table, closing the distance between us. "And you'd fit right in, bellezza."
"Not right now I wouldn’t, but maybe one day," I murmur, but even as the words leave my lips, there’s movement from the corner of my eye.
Atticus descends the stairs like some kind of nocturnal deity. The moment he steps into the light, the atmosphere shifts. The playful banter between Ezra and me evaporates like mist under the sun.
"Ezra," he says in that controlled, deliberate tone of his. "Entertaining my…Lemon, I see."
"Just keeping her company," Ezra replies smoothly, but there’s a flicker of something darker in his eyes.
"Good," Atticus says, moving behind Ezra and wrapping his arms possessively around him .
"Thank you," I manage, my heart pounding. "For everything."
"Ezra, why don’t you finish those dishes," Atticus suggests, his tone soft but firm. I wouldn’t want to tell him no when he speaks like that.
"Of course," Ezra says, reluctantly pulling away.
I push back from the bar top; the chair scraping softly against the polished floor. "Ezra, that meal was incredible." My words feel inadequate to describe the flavors that just danced across my tongue, but they're all I've got.
"Didn’t think a pretty face like me could cook, huh?" he teases, eyes crinkling at the corners. His grin is infectious, and I can't help but return it, even as my body still hums with a strange tension.
"Seriously, thank you." I stand there, feeling oddly bare, stripped down by their attention.
Atticus stares at me and Ezra, not uttering a single word but assessing everything. I start to squirm under the attention, but Ezra seems like he’s almost preening.
Feeling overwhelmed, I excuse myself. "I should get some sleep. Thanks again, Ezra."
"Goodnight," he says with a wink.
"Goodnight, Lemon," Atticus adds, his eyes never leaving mine.
"Goodnight," I whisper, retreating back up the stairs, but I pause halfway up and turn around.
I watch as Atticus walks over to Ezra, pressing him against the sink. Ezra's body relaxes, a small smile playing on his lips.
"Enjoying yourself?" Atticus asks, his voice a deep rumble.
"Immensely," Ezra replies, leaning back against him.
"Good," Atticus murmurs, his eyes moving to look at the staircase. "Though I hope you remember our guest tonight." His tone is playful, yet there's an edge to it that sends a shudder through me.
"Of course," Ezra says, glancing at him with a twinkle in his eye. "I couldn’t forget about Lemon if I tried."
"I might have to gag you in the bedroom later. You can never seem to stay quiet," Atticus continues, his hands trailing down Ezra's chest.
"Promises, promises," Ezra laughs, turning slightly to nuzzle Atticus' neck.
"Don't worry," Atticus says, his gaze intense. "I always keep my promises."
There's a raw, undeniable chemistry between the two men, one that stirs something deep within me. It's almost overwhelming.
He’s Uncle Atti’s friend alright and something much more, which explains why he’s here so late and how he just waltzed right in.
I push open the door to my room and slip inside, closing it softly behind me. The room is bathed in the soft light from the sun slowly starting to rise. I lean against the door, trying to catch my breath, trying to make sense of the emotions crashing through me.
I cross the room to the bed, the cool sheets a balm to the heat simmering under my skin. I sit down heavily, my heart pounding in my chest. My fingers fumble with the hem of my t-shirt, twisting the fabric nervously.
Rolling onto my side and burying my face in the pillow, I groan. This is insane. I shouldn't be feeling this way about either of them, let alone both.
Tomorrow, I’ll work on my plan to get out of here but first sleep.
But even as slumber starts to claim me, my mind is still filled with thoughts of Ezra and Atticus, their faces blending together in a haze of lust and longing. I know I'm in over my head.