Misbooked for Love

Chapter 9

9

CLARA

I disappear into my room without a word, feeling the sting of cold mountain air still clinging to my skin, my cheeks flushed from the wind and whatever just happened with Tom on the slope. My body feels jittery, like it does when I’ve had too much coffee before work. The way his hands steadied me, the feel of his chest against mine, the heat of his touch lingering longer than it should. I can’t shake it off, can’t pretend that my heart didn’t skip a beat when I looked up and saw him standing there, watching me like I was the only thing in his line of sight.

I flop on my bed, staring at the ceiling, and try to push the thoughts away. It’s just attraction, I tell myself. Just the rush of being in close quarters with a handsome man, who, despite everything and the quirky circumstances, makes me feel seen. It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t mean anything.

I stand on a groan and head for the shower, stripping off my clothes and stepping under the hot spray. The water scalds my skin at first, but I welcome it, letting the heat seep into my bones, washing away the cold and the tension that’s been coiled tight in my chest since last night.

I close my eyes, leaning my forehead against the cool tiles, and try to focus on the steady rhythm of the water. But all I can see is Tom’s face, the way his eyes darkened when he caught me for a second time, the hint of something in his expression that I can’t place. Something that makes me feel like I’m just not imagining this pull between us.

When I finally step out, my skin feels raw and new, and I wrap myself in a towel, padding quietly back to my room. I put on the first comfortable thing I can find—leggings and another oversized sweater, soft and warm, like armor against whatever’s happening outside this room. I take a moment, staring at my reflection in the mirror, trying to make sense of the girl looking back at me.

I’ve been here before, haven’t I? Getting too close, feeling too much, reading into things that aren’t meant for me. The thought of Tom’s voice on the phone from the other day flits through my mind— honey— and the way he said it, so intimate, so familiar. It’s the reminder I need to put some distance between us, to keep my guard up because I know how this story ends.

But the knot in my stomach tells me it’s already too late for that.

I walk back out to the kitchen, my hair still damp and curling at the ends, and find Tom leaning against the island, staring at the coffee machine like it holds all the answers of the universe. He looks up when he hears me coming, his eyes scanning me intently, sending a shiver down my spine.

“Hello,” I say, my voice soft, tentative, like we’re on the edge of something fragile.

“Hey,” he replies, setting his mug down. He’s wearing a plain t-shirt and jeans, casual but effortless, and I can’t help but notice how his shoulders fill out the fabric, how he’s always just…there. Solid and steady, in a way that feels like a challenge to my resolve.

There’s a moment where neither of us moves, where we’re just standing there, watching each other, the silence between us thick with unspoken words. I should say something, anything, to break this tension, but my brain is moving too fast, tripping over itself trying to keep up with my heart.

“About earlier,” I start, but the words catch in my throat. I don’t know how to explain what I’m feeling, don’t know how to make sense of it when I’m not even sure myself. “I didn’t mean to?—”

“You didn’t do anything,” he cuts in, his voice gentle, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s fighting something back. “I’m the one who?—”

We both stop, our words colliding and falling apart, and for a second, it’s like we’re back on that bench last night, too close and too afraid to do anything about it. I can feel the pull between us, magnetic and undeniable, and it’s like the room has shrunk around us, drawing us in.

I take a step closer, and he doesn’t move, his eyes fixed on mine, and I can see the conflict there—the push and pull of whatever this is, whatever we’re dancing around. My heart is pounding so loud I’m sure he can hear it, and every nerve in my body is screaming at me to stop, to turn around and walk away. He’s taken. His heart belongs to someone else, and I shouldn’t be doing this at all. Probably shouldn’t even be looking in his direction.

But I don’t stop.

I take another step, closing the space between us, and I can feel the heat of him, the way his breath hitches as I reach up, my fingers brushing lightly against his jaw. It’s a tentative touch, testing the waters, and when he doesn’t pull away, I let my hand linger, tracing the line of his cheekbone .

“Tom,” I whisper, my voice barely audible, and it’s like the last barrier between us shatters.

He moves so fast I barely register it, his hands cupping my face as he leans in, his lips finding mine with a hunger that steals my breath.

The kiss is soft at first, hesitant, like we’re both afraid to push too far, but it doesn’t take long for it to deepen, for the slow burn that’s been building between us to ignite. His lips are warm and firm, and he kisses me like he’s been wanting for this, like he’s been holding back for so long and he’s finally letting go.

I gasp against his mouth, my hands tangling through his hair as I pull him closer, and he responds in kind, his grip tightening on my waist. There’s nothing tentative about this now—it’s urgent and desperate, a clash of need and want that’s been simmering under the surface for days. I can feel his heartbeat against my chest, frantic and matching mine, and I lose myself in the feel of him, the taste of him.

When we finally break apart, we’re both breathless, staring at each other with wide eyes, and I can see the same mix of confusion and exhilaration mirrored in his expression. His thumb brushes against my cheek, a lingering touch that sends a fresh wave of heat through me.

“We shouldn’t have—” I begin, my voice unsteady, but the truth is, I don’t know how to finish that sentence. I don’t want to finish it.

“Yeah,” he says, his forehead resting against mine, his breath warm against my skin. “But I’m not sorry.”

I close my eyes, letting his words sink in, and for a moment, I forget about everything else—the doubt, the uncertainty, the voice in my head telling me to back away. It’s just us, here in this villa, caught in a moment that feels both reckless and right.

But reality creeps in, and I pull back, just enough to see the conflict in his eyes, the same one that’s swirling in my chest. “I don’t want to be a mistake, Tom. I can’t… I can’t do this if it’s just going to end up being another thing that’s wrong.”

His hands drop, and he takes a step back, the warmth between us replaced by a cold rush of uncertainty. “Clara, you’re not?—”

I don’t let him finish. I turn away, my head spinning, and all I can think is that I’m in over my head, again, tangled up in something I’m not ready to deal with, again. I retreat to my room, closing the door behind me with a soft click, my back pressed against it as I try to catch my breath.

Whatever this is, it’s more than I bargained for, and I don’t know if I’m strong enough to see it through. But the lingering taste of him, the feel of his lips on mine—it’s enough to make me wish I was.