Chapter 9
chapter
nine
Juliette
The low murmur of the restaurant feels distant, like I’m underwater. Forks clink against plates, laughter drifts from the bar, and yet all I can hear is the pounding of my pulse in my ears.
I stare at him, his words not quite registering in my brain. “I don’t understand,” I manage, shaking my head. “Is this some kind of a joke?”
He leans back against his side of the booth, the soft light catching the gold in his eyes. “No,” he says quietly. “Not a joke. I only just figured it out myself.”
The air between us tightens. I can’t seem to stop staring—his dark beard, the sharp angles of his jaw, the faint sprinkle of gray at his temples.
His eyes—golden brown, thoughtful, infuriatingly calm—pin me in place.
The collar of his T-shirt dips low enough to reveal a triangle of chest hair, and I hate that I notice it right now of all times.
He clears his throat. “You are FleetwdLvr05, right?”
The name hits me like a spark to dry tinder.
I nod slowly. “The app just matched us? And we’ve been talking this whole time… not knowing we already knew each other?”
“Yep.” The word lands with a heavy pop of his lips.
My face burns. “How did you figure it out?”
“Mostly your playlist in the car,” he says.
“Damn Stevie Nicks,” I mumble. “Her music really does connect souls, huh?”
He gives a small, crooked smile. “Are you disappointed?”
I blink at him. “No. Not at all. I mean—come on, you have to have noticed how much of a crush I have on you. I haven’t exactly been covert.”
“Maybe not,” he admits, his voice low, rough. “But your brother has made it very clear that you’re off-limits.”
That earns a bitter laugh from me. “That might’ve worked in his favor a couple of years ago. But I’ve been an adult for a while now. He just doesn’t want to admit it.”
Something flickers in his expression—something that looks dangerously like want, desire… need. Then it’s gone.
“Why don’t you ever call me by my first name?” I ask the question before I can stop it.
His jaw tightens. “Because then I have to admit there’s something here. Something between us.”
“Because every Romeo needs his Juliette?”
He huffs a breath, shaking his head. “Something like that.”
I lean in, my voice soft but sharp. “I would not have taken you for a coward.”
His eyes lift to mine, slow and deliberate. “This isn’t about fear.”
I cock a brow. “Isn’t it, though?”
“No,” he says, too calm. “It’s about right and wrong.”
His words stab at my tender heart. “You think it’s wrong to want to be with me?”
“I’m old enough to be your father.”
I roll my eyes. “You are not my father.”
“I’m very well aware of that. But our age difference is significant.”
“Is that all you’ve got? Clinging to the age argument?”
“It matters,” he insists.
“To whom? Not me. The only person it matters to is you.”
He drags a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “What about Jude?”
“What about him?” I shoot back. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a grown woman.”
“Trust me,” he says, voice dipping an octave, “that hasn’t escaped my attention.” His eyes flick for just a second to my cleavage.
The way he says it sends a pulse of heat through my chest. My fingers twitch on the table. “Then give me one actual reason. One real reason you don’t want to be with me.”
“Juliette—”
“No, I’m serious. You don’t like my personality? You hate that I usually have grease under my fingernails? You think my ass is too big? My hair too long? My taste in music too basic?”
“Fuck, Buttercup—” His voice cracks. “There’s nothing wrong with you. This is all about me.”
The nickname slams into me, both familiar and forbidden.
“So you get to just make the decision for both of us?” I hiss. I stand, and he follows me.
The air crackles. People at nearby tables glance over. The server hesitates by the bar. My face burns.
“Come on,” he mutters. “Let’s not do this here.”
Before I can say anything else, he drops bills on the table, grabs the roses and my wrist, and pulls me out of the restaurant. He says something to the waitress on the way out.
My heart is slamming itself against my chest. Pound, pound, pound. I wait until we’re enclosed in the elevator.
“I don’t get a say in what I want?” I jab a finger into his chest, feeling the solid warmth beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. “Don’t you dare tell me I’m too young to know what I want.”
He towers over me. His hand is still tight around my wrist. “I’ll probably die before you even have gray hair.”
I scoff. “Good! I’ll still be hot for my second husband.”
His jaw flexes. “Second husband? I don’t fucking think so.”
“You don’t want me, you don’t get a say in who gets me,” I shoot back, voice trembling—not with fear, but fury.
“I never said I didn’t want you,” he growls. “Only that I shouldn’t want you.”
The hallway smells faintly of old wood and lemon cleaner. The carpet muffles our steps, but not the silence stretching between us.
Inside our room, the door clicks shut behind us. The low lamplight paints him in amber and shadows. He turns, rakes a hand through his hair again, and exhales hard.
“This,” he says, “is exactly why I didn’t want to start something.”
I cross my arms. “Then why did you?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it. His eyes move over me—frustration, hunger, regret, all tangled up.
“Say it,” I whisper.
He swallows. “Because you make me forget how to be careful.”
My heart stutters. “Then stop pretending you don’t want me.”
He takes one step forward. Then another. When he’s close enough that I can smell the faint salt of his skin and the citrus of his soap, I look up at him and say quietly, “You called me Buttercup.”
His lips twitch. “Old habits.”
“Bad ones,” I murmur.
He nods slowly. “The worst.”
And still, neither of us moves away.
“Why Buttercup?”
“You reminded me of Princess Buttercup the first time I saw you.” He fingers a strand of my blonde hair. He shrugs. “When I found out your name, I just couldn’t make myself use it.”
“As far as nicknames go, Buttercup is a nice one. Shall I call you Farm Boy?”
He chuffs a laugh. “As you wish.”
The space between us is all pulse and static.
He’s close enough that the air feels warmer, the hotel air conditioning humming uselessly behind him.
“We shouldn’t do this,” he says, but he doesn’t move.
“Do what, exactly?” I wait.
His eyes search my face, land on my lips. He gives a quiet, helpless laugh. “You have no idea how much I want you.”
“You could show me.”
He looks at me then—really looks—and something in his eyes softens. “Juliette…” My name sounds like it hurts coming out of his mouth.
His fingers twitch at his sides before he lets them hover, just barely, at my waist. Not touching. Just there. The heat from his skin ghosts across the fabric of my dress, and every nerve I have lights up.
“Say it again,” I whisper.
He shakes his head once. “That’s the problem. Every time I say your name, it feels like a promise I can’t keep.”
I swallow hard. “Maybe stop thinking about what could go wrong and think about what could go right.”
He gives a low, disbelieving laugh, the sound rough as gravel. “Don’t mistake my reluctance for ignorance. I have zero doubts about how good things would be between us.”
Another ghost of a touch, this time the denim of his jeans as he closes the distance between our bodies.
For one impossible second, everything narrows to that—his breath against my cheek, the scent of his soap and the hotel shampoo, the heat between us. I could lean forward half an inch and end this standoff forever.
Then there’s a knock on the door. Sharp. Intrusive.
We both flinch.
He steps back first, runs a hand through his hair. The distance hits like cold air. “Room service,” a voice calls from the hall.
He doesn’t answer. I can’t seem to breathe.
Finally, he mutters, “I asked them to bring our orders up here.”
“I guess you’ve been saved by the bell or something,” I say, my voice sounding sharper than intended.