Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Sarah
It’s so dark in Case’s bedroom. Dark and warm and it smells like all the bad, wicked, delightfully good things we did to each other last night.
With a hint of blueberry, lemon, and pumpkin.
The bedsheets move slightly, lifting with his deep breaths, the rhythm of his sleep enchanting to watch. In slumber, he’s classically good-looking, though stripped of the incandescent charm that makes him such a vibrant person to be around.
No “chick magnet” accent. No panty-melting smile. Just dark mussed hair, closed eyes with lashes that fan out across his lower lids, and a neutral expression that makes me want to wake up next to him every morning for the rest of my life.
Whoa. Where did that come from?
As I lick my lips, I taste sugar, Case, and dehydration.
Dehydration I can do something about.
I just did plenty of Case…
Slipping out from under the sheets without waking him, as I open the door from his bedroom I see more light. The guy must have blackout curtains in his bedroom.
I pad into his huge kitchen and peek into the fridge, happy to find more sparkling water. There’s even a small glass container of lemon slices next to the bottles. Earlier tonight, I missed that detail, so caught up in him. Now, I open the container, squeeze a slice into the top of my new bottle, and take a big swig.
Ahhh.
With Case sound asleep, I can snoop a little. No, I won’t poke through his personal files, but I can walk around the cavernously beautiful apartment. Extremely modern, the walls are a combination of paint, exposed brick, and wood beams, with leather couches. All neutrals, but the rugs and pillows provide splashes of primary colors.
This is a very “done” apartment.
Mine, by comparison, feels like a Home for Wayward Thrift Shop 2-for-1 Items.
People really live like this, huh? The soles of my feet turn cold on the bare wood floor until I reach a tufted wool rug, one with geometric shapes and punches of red, blue, adobe, and orange among the cream sections. My toes grip the fibers as I walk, sipping my water, taking in the skyline.
We’re so far up, no one can see me naked.
Other than me. My reflection almost makes me laugh out loud.
Sarah Gorenta, from dinky little Becket, is standing in a luxury apartment in Boston, sipping water that costs more than early-bird diner dinners back home, blissfully orgasmed out after drinking wine and eating donuts with a guy she met two days ago.
Barely two days.
“And a guy you’re lying to,” I whisper, blowing out the rest of my breath as that sobering thought hits me, hard.
I came close a few hours ago. So close. Confessing the truth means turning this perfect night into a perfect nightmare, and I’m not ready to let go.
Am I a sleaze? Yes.
Am I a liar? By omission, yes. And hey – the omission part matters. It does.
Is Slot B happy? Yup.
And Slot B turns out to want to have more of a say in things going forward, after years of being the shy one in the corner, nose in a book. She’s found her voice.
And I need to find mine. The honest voice. The one that comes clean with Case before this goes any further.
Because here’s the problem: I’m falling for him. Not just a little, either. The L word keeps floating through my mind, and I don’t mean lick .
Though Case does a fine, fine job with that word.
Love.
I could love this man. If I can figure out how to tell him the truth – that I’m investigating his company – and we can get past it, I could go into this wholehearted, full-throated, and one-hundred percent Slot B’d.
Technically, Slot B is already one-hundred percent all-in, but whatever.
Bzzz
The sound of a text coming in is distinct but muffled. A look at the clock tells me it’s 5:30 a.m. Must be Case’s phone.
Bzzz
The sound is coming from my purse, which is on the floor by the couch. As I walk toward it, I see the box of donuts on the counter, askew.
Hmmm. Donut or text? Donut or –
Bzzz
Who texts me at 5:30 a.m.? Unless Adriana or Luna (or both) had a super-late night last night and wants me to meet them for a hangover breakfast at our favorite pancake place, something’s wrong.
I find my purse, dig out the phone, and as I read my phone, my jaw drops.
I have a spot for your feature. Long story, the planned article on one of the Patriots buying The Pru didn’t happen. How close are you on that Chakroga123 piece?
Holy shit. It’s Marsha. My editor at The Beaconite .
I look back at Case’s bedroom.
I’m damn close on that Chakroga123 piece, all right.
Too damn close.
But that’s not what my editor means.
What are you doing up at 5:30 a.m.? I text back, mostly because words fail me. Not the best look for a journalist, but I hit send before I can really think. Caffeine deprivation puts a serious hit on my cognition.
Insomnia. Freelancers who don’t do what I need, Marsha adds with an emoji sticking out its tongue.
Not my fault Stu screwed up the Pru article , I write back, bolder than usual. Maybe some of Case’s confidence is rubbing off on me.
After all those hours of rubbing, I wouldn’t be surprised.
Stuart Ribisi is another freelancer at The Beaconite , doing his slimy best to edge me out. He’s the type of person who turns on the charm to get what he wants, but if he decides he doesn’t like you, he finds little ways to get under your skin and undermine you. You know the kind.
Your idea becomes his idea a week later.
I’ve kept my Chakroga123 article under wraps on purpose. He’s exactly the kind of journalist who would go behind my back and scoop me. Marsha’s sworn to secrecy.
Wasn’t Stu’s fault. Turns out the player didn’t have as much money as he claimed. Leveraged a bunch of crypto, Marsha explains.
“No!” I gasp, then clamp my own hand over my mouth. A rush of tingling glee shoots through me. Schadenfreude feels so much better when your legs are wobbly from too much sex. Stu has done nothing but try to screw me out of my chance at the full-time staff writing job, so for him to stumble like this feels… fair.
What are you doing up at the butt crack of dawn? she texts back. Anyone else and I’d think you partied hard and haven’t gone to bed yet, but you’re basically a retired librarian pretending to be in your twenties.
Can a phone melt from a glare?
Working on the Chakroga123 article , I say, shooting another guilty glance toward Case’s bedroom. I swear I’m not sleeping with him to get info out of him. Absolutely not. But this whole conversation with Marsha is as entangled as my mess with Case.
Good investigative journalists do whatever it takes to get the story.
Screwing one of the subjects, though, goes way beyond journalistic standards.
As the texts fly in, I sit on a kitchen counter stool, the cool shock of metal on my ass making me wince.
Lying to Case is bad. Bad, bad, bad.
If Marsha realizes I’m sleeping with him, all my integrity is out the window.
Look , she texts back. If you can finish the article in the next week, I can get it out in next month’s issue. It’s tight, but that’s the best I can do. Same word count.
Next month??? I text back. Are you serious?
You’d be saving my ass , Marsha replies. It’s controversial and the lawyers have to vet it. Can you do it?
A big exposé like this makes a writer’s career. Everything I have about Prakash Shanti is properly sourced.
Another text from her:
If you can’t, I’m stuck with a puff piece about Jessica Coffin or the McCormick family, and not the fun Scottish soccer dude now that he’s engaged. Come on. We need variety. We need scandal. Mama needs a Pulitzer.
Billionaires and scorned socialites are all the rage, but I get what my editor is saying.
Okay, Lois Lane , I type back.
Not even close. She got Superman. I have a wife who wants to raise chickens and replace all our mattresses with organic latex and New Zealand wool. Get me the story, Sarah. This is your shot. It’s you or Stu for the staff job, so you have to show me you’ve got the chops.
Her text makes my head pound with a mix of fear and possibility.
Ambition is a strange animal, unpredictable and fierce.
“Hey.”
Startled by the sound of Case’s voice, I scream a little, my hand flailing against the counter, sending the box of donuts flying into his groin.
“Ooof.”
Thankfully, he catches the box.
With his hands. Hands . He’s not that talented with his … hmph .
“Sorry! OMIGOD, you scared me.”
“By saying ‘hey’?”
“Yes.” Hand on my heart, I feel it sputtering like a car going uphill.
“You’re texting someone? At this hour?” He sets the donuts on the counter and crosses his arms over his chest. Given the part of him standing at attention, it’s actually possible he did catch the donut box with his cock.
The man is talented in more ways than one.
Plus, he saved the donuts. That makes him even more endearing.
I wiggle my phone. “My boss.”
“Boss? At five in the morning?”
Something in his tone makes the back of my neck start tingling. Suddenly domineering, he’s physically aggressive, skepticism all over his face, mouth flat with tension.
Hold on. Hold on. Is… is this what Case looks like when he’s jealous?
“Yes, my boss. Marsha. Who do you think I’m texting at five in the morning?”
He just stares at me, then sighs. “You’re right. I’m being stupid.”
“I never called you stupid!”
“It’s all over your face.”
“Your leftover jizz and some donut sugar is all over my face, Case.”
Dimples appear as he closes his eyes. “Touché.”
“You – you think I’m texting some other guy after the night we had?” Nights, plural , I think but don't say.
“Guy, woman…”
“I would never do that!”
“We’re not exclusive,” he says, hands on his hips as he exhales slowly. Everything deflates at his words. I do mean everything .
“No,” I stammer, suddenly super awkward. “We’re not.”
“You can have a random booty call if that’s what you want.”
Now I’m mad.
“I cannot believe you would think that about me!”
“I didn’t say you’re doing it. I said you could do it and it would be fine because you’re not breaking any rules.”
“What rules?”
“Relationship rules.”
“You just said we’re not exclusive!”
“Exactly.”
“I am so confused.” We’re in his kitchen, early dawn beginning to shine a glow on everything, and we’re having our first fight, naked.
And I really do have some jizz on my face.
“So am I, frankly. Very confused. You have a boss? I thought you were a freelancer.”
“My editor. It’s easier to say boss. That’s how I explain it to my mom and friends who don’t understand.”
“I see. Something wrong at work?”
“Not wrong. Just an editorial schedule thing.” Trying to explain it all to him cuts it too close to the truth about my research into Chakroga123, and while I need to come clean with him, I’m suddenly shaky.
This is too much.
It’s all too much.
I will tell him the truth. I swear. I really will. I just need time.
And to not be naked.
His eyes narrow. “Why would you need to text with your boss after having a phenomenal night with me?”
“It was phenomenal.”
We stare at each other, breathing in sync, his eyes combing over my bare, tense body.
“But your editor? This time of day?”
“I don’t pick her timing,” I say in the lightest voice possible. “She had a story that was dropped and needs something from me immediately.”
“Really?” His tongue rolls around inside his cheek, contemplative and struggling.
This is the point where I should tell him, right? Confess all. The problem is, I’m naked. Nude. Covered in nothing but him, his scent imprinted all over me, handprints still hot against my skin from all the incredible intimacy.
I freeze.
I can’t. Not right now. Suddenly, I want to flee. Run away. Sprint out of here and cover my face.
Case steps forward, closing the space between us, his body language going loose as he studies me.
“You’re even more luscious and beautiful in the daylight, Sarah. I wish I could capture this moment forever.”
Oh. Oh, oh, oh .
“When I saw you two nights ago, in that bar, Sarah, I – I have my own confession.”
The word confession is an emotional grenade. A fear bomb. A nuclear warhead. I lunge forward and kiss him, nothing but impulse, completely lost in him.
Then I break the kiss with a loud smack.
“I do not allow naked pictures, Case. Hard line.” Every word comes with my finger poking his chest.
“I didn’t mean that . I meant stopping time. How did we get into this tiff?”
“You accused me of side-guying you.”
“I see. I retract that fully.”
“You have something else that retracts quite nicely, don’t you?” My eyes cannot help but drift to his crotch, where it’s clear that our turn of conversation is making him happy.
“American women are fascinating. So obsessed with foreskins.”
“ Obsessed isn’t the word I’d use.”
“You wanted to change your nickname for him from King Hmph to L.L. Bean last night, Sarah.”
“I did? What? ”
“Something about turtlenecks.”
“Weren’t you about to confess something to me? How did we get from that to turtlenecks?”
“Either way,” he says with a grin, “stop calling anything on my body King.”
“Other than your butt.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know. When you’re a royal pain in the butt.”
We’re smiling now, the awkward tension gone, but something hovers behind his gaze. Tentative and repressed, he’s holding a secret, too.
What are we keeping from each other?
And why are we both lying?
Relief floods me, odd and improper. If he’s lying about something, I’m sort of off the hook, right? We’re even. Whatever he’s keeping from me is bad enough that he can’t bring himself to lay it all out for me, and I feel the same way about my article on him.
Is it bad? Sure. Will he be pissed when he finally finds out? Probably.
But if Case is hiding something from me that he thinks will piss me off, then we have leverage against each other.
Yes, that sounds like a horrible basis for a relationship, but I’ve seen worse. Adriana once dated a guy based on his surfboard wax choice. Luna has an assistant she found on Fiverr whose entire job is to blur out her bare feet on her images and videos because of foot fetish stalkers trying to date her.
Case might be holding back some detail he doesn’t want me to know, but at least he isn’t sending me socks to wear in the bathtub and begging for photos.
Or making recipes about toejam.
“Your nose just crinkled like you smelt something bad, Sarah,” Case says, giving me some space. “Did I offend you?”
“No. Just thinking about foot fetishes.”
His eyebrows go up, then his gaze drops to my feet. “Is that a kink of yours?”
“No! No. Nooooooo . Something Luna deals with all the time.”
“You could write an article about that.”
“About Luna?”
“Foot fetishists.”
I shake my head. “Not my usual subject.”
“Who is your usual suspect – er, subject?” he says, the verbal stumble extremely out of character for him.
“I tend to cover more complex issues.”
“People who stalk toe pictures from Instagram stars strike me as rather complex.”
“Case. Seriously? We’re naked in your kitchen and you want to talk about toejam.”
“Who mentioned… did you just say toejam ?”
“No! I mean – ”
His arm goes around my waist, our bare skin touching, all the fire in my belly spreading as if my warmth seeks his. “Let’s talk about that nice, soft bed I have in there,” he whispers, nodding toward his bedroom. “It’s lonely.”
“You’re anthropomorphizing your bed.”
“I named him Nigel.”
“You named your bed Nigel ?”
“Can you think of a better name?”
“Sure. Matt.”
“Matt?”
“Short for Mattress.”
He groans, then kisses me, spinning away to reach across the counter. “That deserves a spanking.”
“How about a nice big cup of coffee?”
“Already?”
“I’m up.” A stretch overtakes me, my arms going high, toes rising, calves begging for more blood as I yawn. Case watches as I’m helpless to fight biology, rib cage rising, my core muscles elongating with relief. A rush of some hormone I can’t name makes my skin race with a delicious tingle.
Having him watch me, witness this stretch, comb over every inch of me from toes to fingertips just adds to the sense of how alive I am right now.
“Sarah.” I catch his eyes as I inhale deeply, enjoying myself.
“Hmm?”
His tongue grazes his lower lip as a slow smile spreads across his face. “There is no caffeine that can lift me the way that stretch does.”
I’m in his arms suddenly, his mouth on my neck, our embrace exquisite. All my weirdness around Marsha’s texts fades. Guilt and fear and tension dissipate as he wraps his arms around me, lips below my earlobe, the sound of his breath against my shoulder like the eternal rush of the ocean on a perfect twilight beach.
I could stay like this forever.
“I’ll make the coffee,” he says with authority, peeling off me, shooing me toward my phone. “Breakfast can be the leftover donuts.”
“You’re kind of perfect, Case,” I murmur as he halts, hand on my elbow, on his way to the coffeemaker.
“After coffee and donuts, more sex.”
“Now you’re actually perfect.”
His shoulders relax and he turns away, giving me a glorious view of his – yep! – perfect ass.
“That’s more like it.”
“Perfection is a personal goal of yours?”
“Not a goal. Just an attribute. Don’t hate me. God made me this way.”
Oh, this man. This man.
This man.
Not a dude. Not a guy. A real man, the kind who has responsibilities and holds himself accountable to them.
This isn’t just a hook-up. I’m not his side piece. We’re falling into something. Something real.
Dating? Relationship? I don’t know. Call it whatever you want. Labels don’t matter. But this man is a man I need more than I want to need, and that’s where my conscience comes in again.
I have to tell him.
I have to tell him now .
“Case,” I say as he pours coffee beans into his elaborate machine.
“Yes?”
Bzzz
Even his groan is perfect. “Your boss is persistent.”
“I guess so.”
Except when I look at the text on my phone, it’s not from Marsha. It’s not Luna. Not Adriana. Not my mother. It’s not a fifteen-percent-off sale at Kohl’s or a UPS scam.
It’s from an unknown number.
And it fills me with a different kind of tingling.
Barbi told me you are looking to talk to people from Chakroga123. I’d like to talk to you. There’s something you need to know about Case Willingham
I go numb.
Not so numb that my thumbs stop working, though.
Yes, this is Sarah. I’d love to meet with you , I quickly reply as I live in two worlds, hiding this sudden intrusion into my little bubble with Case, fear spiking through my blood.
OMG, you’re awake? Sorry. This is Dori. I’ve got bad insomnia and the stress of the situation at C123 makes it hard to sleep
I let out a little sound, unable to stop myself, and Case looks at me, head tilted.
“Everything okay?” What was adorable and panty-melting seconds ago suddenly makes me feel like I’m the star of a Netflix documentary series, the kind where color photos fade to black and white with music going into minor chords as the story takes a dark turn.
“Sure,” I choke out in a high voice. “Just a weird work problem.”
“Another one?”
“Same problem, just… a new wrinkle.”
I keep weird hours. Can we meet for coffee?
Gurgling from his machine makes me smell the first hint of roasted delight as I type the word coffee , the synergy overpowering me. What could this woman possibly know about Case?
And what could be so bad that my other informant at Chakroga123 has referred her to me?
What started out as a simple long-form piece into some possible financial corruption at a popular yoga chain is turning into more.
Much more.
Case leaves the kitchen and I let out the biggest whoosh of air, not realizing until now how much I’ve been holding my breath.
I work at seven. Off at three. Three-thirty today?
Sure , I reply, heart jamming in my chest.
Within seconds, we choose a coffee shop about a twenty-minute walk from my apartment and as I end the text stream, Case comes back into the room.
Still naked.
Like me.
Every shred of attraction for him is still there, imprinted on my body, racing through my blood, but now there’s a sinister element to it all.
Who is Dori? What does her text mean?
All the conflicting emotions I felt a few minutes ago about not telling Case I’m writing about him feel different now. Instinct is powerful. Devoid of logic, it has its own set of rules, opaque and unyielding. I can’t quantify why I didn’t tell him, but now I know why.
In my gut.
My stomach churns suddenly, unease replacing all my delicious warmth from the night.
“Sarah?” Concern fills his voice. “You look like something’s wrong.”
Lying shouldn’t come so easily.
Yet it does.
“Uh, Marsha’s had another opening. Something about a restaurant in Chelsea. Pop-up kind of place run by a Boston marathon bombing survivor. She wants six hundred words on it by noon so we can get it on the website.”
“Oh, my. She really keeps you busy at the butt-crack of dawn.”
“I – I should go.”
“Go?” He looks around the kitchen. “But we haven’t had our morning feast.”
Alarm bells scream in my head like horror movie gongs. All the deception I’ve engaged in finally breaks me.
“I’m so sorry, Case. I really do need to go. If I can become Marsha’s ‘go-to’ freelancer, it means I could get the staff writer job I’m trying so hard for.”
“Ah. Got it. Ambition.”
Ambition.
That word makes me blink, over and over. It feels like a cattle prod to the back of my head.
“Right,” I gasp as I move past him and start collecting my clothes. Panties are in the bedroom, along with my bra. Dress is in the hallway.
Shoes by the door.
“At least stay and have some coffee. Grab a donut.”
Unable to form words now, I scurry into his bathroom and get dressed, running the sink as white noise. Shock makes my hands shake, my belly cramping as I get dressed.
A splash of cold water on my face helps, and when I look in the mirror, I see my smeared mascara.
Our night was so much fun.
Our night was so meaningful.
Our night was built on lies.
A bar of soap next to the sink smells like sandalwood, the foam good and thick as I use it to wash my face, fingers careful not to get soap in my eyes. Tears rise up, more from panic than anything else.
Calm down , I admonish myself. Don’t assume. Good journalists never assume.
That helps. A little.
But only a little.
The woman I see in the mirror is a mess. Scraggly hair with obvious bedhead, a stale dress, Case’s scent all over me. I have a bare face, red eyes, and the look of someone who is feeling contradictory feelings one at a time.
All laid out in her expression.
“You can do this,” I whisper into the mirror. “He’s a good guy. Interview the source. Don’t pre-judge.”
A wooden comb on a shelf next to the sink becomes my instant friend as I untangle the mess I call my hair, until finally I can smooth it out enough to look better.
And I did it all without morning coffee. A miracle.
When I return to the kitchen, Case is dressed in hip-hugging pajama bottoms, the V of his well-toned torso making me go warm and tingly again.
The good way.
“I am underdressed,” he deadpans, offering me a travel mug of coffee which I take gratefully.
“Travel mug?”
“You said you have to go. I made it easy for you. And now you have to see me again to return it.”
“You know me well. I would never keep something that didn’t belong to me.”
“You’re a deeply ethical person, Sarah.”
Ouch.
“And here.” He reaches for a small paper bag on the counter. “Your breakfast.”
The Dunkin' Donuts box is nowhere to be found. A tiny spot of powdered sugar is on the corner of his mouth.
“Donuts? To go?”
“I figured it would help you. Go hustle. You deserve the job you’re aiming for. I ask for just one thing.”
"Name it."
"Keep me posted about this big article." Something flickers in his eyes.
Whuf . I feel like the wind’s been knocked out of me.
A sip of coffee is my only viable response.
“Mmm. This is good.”
“It’s even better in bed.”
The lines feel so blurred right now. Having sex right now would be joyful, light-hearted – fun.
But not with this cloud of doubt hanging over me.
“Another time.”
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
Our kiss steals my breath away, making me wonder if I’m overthinking everything, question whether that text from Dori is an anomaly I’m misinterpreting. But the overwhelm is too much.
I need to be alone.
I need clarity.
I need information.
Mostly, though, I need caffeine and space.
And a shower. Hoo boy, do I need a shower.
He walks me to the door, giving me a long, slow kiss, the kind that makes me want to ignore the other half of my brain, the fifty percent that lives in Dori’s text, in a future where I’m sitting at a coffee shop with her, hearing something I need to know about Case Willingham.
What I already know about him is marvelous.
But what if I’m wrong?
“Good luck,” he says seriously, forehead pressed against mine, eyes seeing into the soul I’m trying to hide from him.
“Thank you. You, too.”
His eyebrows furrow. “I need luck?”
I laugh nervously. “No. I guess not.”
He kisses my temple, then pats my ass as I cross the threshold. “I’ll take it anyway. We can all use a little more, right?”
I nod, close my eyes, and sigh before turning away.
“Right.”