Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
H e didn’t spend the night last night. Instead, KC went to his own home, and I went to mine. He needed time to think. Did his mother leaving change everything? Was he faking the relationship with me at that level, too? I refuse to believe that. What we’ve shared in and out of the bedroom in the last week has been real.
I trudge back across the lawn, my sneakers leaving a half-hearted trail in the dewy grass. The morning sun is too cheerful, too bright for my taste right now. It's like the universe hasn't gotten the memo that my heart's doing this weird tap dance of confusion and disappointment. I grab my mail and look through it. Nope. My 1099 is not there. I made the mistake of writing a couple books for a small publisher this year. My royalties had been lower than any of my independently published books, but I was trying to expand my portfolio. I needed the last 1099 to do my taxes and they swore they’d mailed it out. Sighing, I turn back to the house, and try hard not to glance over at his.
The door to my house creaks open, a familiar sound that usually brings me a sense of relief. Not today, though. Today, it feels like I'm walking into a scene where the heroine realizes she's not as tough as she thought and starts questioning everything. Great.
I drop onto my couch, the cushions hugging me in that comforting way they do, but it's no use. All I can think about is how KC took me on this couch, the first time we had sex. Only a week ago, now it felt like months had passed.
"Focus, RJ," I tell myself. "You've got a book to write."
With a sigh, I flip open my laptop, the screen springing to life and revealing the latest exploits of my fictional couple—the kind of pair who knows how to navigate their way through a dungeon of desire without tripping on their own shoelaces. I’d given up writing third act breakup scenes a long time ago. My couples were strong, they could overcome anything. Together.
My fingers hover over the keys, ready to weave a tale of steamy encounters and whispered commands. But instead of my characters, it's KC's face that fills my mind's eye. His perfectly groomed hair that never dares to disobey, those intense eyes that can see through me. The way he has started bringing me coffee regularly from our place.
"Get a grip, girl," I chide myself, tapping out a sentence before promptly hitting the backspace key a dozen times. "He's just the guy next door with a way in bed that makes you forget your own name." No big deal. The guy I started to care for beyond just the physical connection.
But it's no use. Each line I write reads like a secret love letter to KC. And why not? He's disciplined, controlled, and he can dampen my underwear with a single look. Such a stark contrast to my chaotic world of messy buns, takeout containers and coffee stains.
"Maybe I need a break," I murmur, shutting the laptop with more force than necessary. "Or maybe I just need to figure out why the heck I care so much about KC Campbell's seal of approval and why he needed to think."
I push off from the couch, restless energy propelling me toward the kitchen. Maybe a cup of coffee will do the trick. Yeah, because espresso has been known to fix everything from a bad mood to an existential crisis over a fake boyfriend turned real boyfriend who is now contemplating what he wants from us… by himself. I fire up my espresso machine, make myself a latte and head back to the couch.
With a tentative tap-tap on the spacebar, I coax a new paragraph to life, but my hero's smoldering gaze doesn't seem to sizzle as it should. Instead of the rugged face I've crafted from imagination, KC's features hijack my brain, his square jaw and sharp eyes all too real and present. It's like he's become the blueprint for every leading man I write, and now I can't unsee it.
"Seriously?" I mutter to the empty room, biting my lip as I scrutinize the lines on the screen. It’s all wrong. I look down at my cell phone. He hasn’t texted me since before picking me up for brunch with his mother yesterday. It’s the longest in three weeks we’ve gone without talking. The week before his mother came, we were on the phone constantly, getting to know each other in advance of the charade. And while I only met her in person three times, we’ve spent a lot of time talking in these past two weeks, too.
It's hard for me to believe KC would just use me to play a prank on his mother and walk away. I mean, we’ve slept together every day for a week, multiple times a day. You can’t fake the chemistry between us.
"Okay, just stop," I command myself. I pace the length of my living room, arms folded tight across my chest. I try not to overthink it. It’s only been a day. One day. It’s not like he’s ghosted me for weeks. I could text him. Hell, I could walk my happy butt across the yard and knock on his door. I could–
"Enough," I say, halting mid-stride. I need a distraction, something to wrench my thoughts away from the man who's unwittingly infiltrated my creative process. I glance back at my laptop, its screen dark and accusatory. Maybe it's time to call it a day, to step away from writing men who bear an uncanny resemblance to my infuriatingly attractive neighbor. Maybe, I should see if any of the girls are online and can chat. They can distract me from the thoughts running rapid in my head.
The sharp knock on my front door startles me mid thought. I walk towards the door with a sigh, already bracing myself, and swing it open.
KC stands there, hands in the pockets of his jeans, broad shoulders squared like he’s preparing for battle. His jaw is set, but his eyes; those deep, unreadable eyes, flicker with something softer. Something uncertain.
“I thought long and hard about it,” he says, no preamble, no greeting. “And I’ve decided—I want this. Whatever this is.”
For a second, I just stare at him, blinking against the early morning sun. His words sink in slowly, but instead of warmth or excitement, something hot and angry rises in my chest.
“You decided?” I echo, crossing my arms. “Just like that?”
KC’s brows pull together. “Yeah. I?—”
“You decided,” I cut him off, stepping forward. “Without talking to me first. Without including me in the conversation. You thought about it, you made a decision, and now what? I’m just supposed to nod and go along with it?”
A flicker of realization crosses his face. He exhales through his nose, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Well, that’s what it sounds like,” I snap, the unexpected frustration rolling through me in waves.
KC shakes his head. “Damn it, RJ, I know I handled this wrong. I should’ve talked to you first, and I’m sorry for that. But you have to understand—this is new for me. I make plans and I follow them through. When I like a girl, I know what I’m doing from the start. Asking for a phone number, dating before sex, the whole nine.” His voice dips lower, softer. “I never intended to fall for you. This? Us? It’s so far outside of my norm that I had to take a step back and reassess. I’m sorry. It wasn’t fair not to include you in the conversation.”
My breath catches.
KC steps closer, crowding the doorway. “It was supposed to be simple. Pretend for a couple of weeks. Move on.” He shakes his head. “But now? I can’t move on. And that scares the hell out of me.”
I swallow hard, heart pounding. “You’re scared?”
KC lets out a rough laugh. “Of course I’m scared. You think I do this often? Let someone in like this?” He shakes his head. “I don’t. But you—you got under my skin, RJ. And I’m standing here, telling you I want this. I want you. Not because I decided it alone, but because it’s the truth. And I don’t want to keep lying to myself about it.”
Something in me softens, my anger cooling into something else entirely.
KC drags a hand through his hair. “Look, I don’t know how to do this the right way. I don’t have a playbook for us.” His gaze finds mine, steady and sure. “But I can promise you one thing. I’ll be open with you from now on. I’ll talk to you, let you in. No more making decisions without you.”
I hold his gaze, searching for any hesitation, any doubt. But all I see is sincerity.
A slow breath escapes me. “I need that, KC. If this is going to be something real, I need you to talk to me. To trust me.”
KC nods. “I can do that.” He lifts a hand like he wants to touch me, but lets it drop. “So… where do we go from here?”
I study him for a long moment, then step aside, opening the door wider.
“Come inside,” I say. “Let’s figure it out together.”
His lips twitch into something almost like a smile, and he steps over the threshold.
For the first time, it feels like we’re on the same page.