Chapter Fifteen
Jess
Getting dressed after the massage is torture. My skin is flushed and tingling, the imprint of Nick’s skin on mine still burning. I’m by myself in a locker room; taking my robe off shouldn’t be arousing, and yet the feel of the fabric sliding over my skin is enough to send a shiver racing down my spine.
My head is as full of flurries as the blizzard still raging outside. I don’t know what to think, much less what to feel after the last hour.
Nick regrets the ending, so he says. But I don’t have much clarity as to what that actually means. The way he ended it, or the fact that he ended it at all? And what the hell am I supposed to do with that? Does that mean he wants to get back together? I flash back to what he said the other night at dinner, that his happy ending was destroyed. By whom? Because it sure as hell wasn’t me.
And does it really matter? Will it make a difference if I discover Nick really does regret breaking up with me?
Will it make a difference if I find out he might want to explore getting back together?
Surely this shiver, zinging through every one of my veins and leaving my skin all tingly, can be chalked up to nothing short of horror at the thought of giving Nick and me another chance.
I peek around every doorway and every corner as I make my way back through the lobby. I’ve almost managed to make it to the elevators without running into Nick when I’m stopped by the only other person in this hotel I don’t want to run into.
“Lauren!” I exclaim when she catches my elbow, pulling me to a halt in one of the alcoves of the lobby. “I’d say fancy running into you here, but since we’re all trapped together, I guess it’s par for the course.” I wonder if I could manage to work any more clichés into my next sentence to really show off my stellar way with words.
“I’m glad I caught you, Jessica.” She drops her hand from my elbow, since she literally caught me. “I was talking with Gina and Hannah this morning and they told me you and Nick might be writing a book together.”
Oh god, please do not come out and directly ask me to fake date Nick Matthews. Because after the hour I just had, I might actually agree to the whole farcical plan, and I’ve been a romance reader for way longer than I’ve been a writer and I know the only outcome of a fake dating scheme is for it to become all too real.
Lauren hesitates for just a second, checking to make sure there’s no one else around us. “I’m so excited to read what you guys come up with, I’m sure it’s going to be absolutely fantastic.”
“Oh.” Well. Huh.
I try to identify the feeling building in the pit of my stomach, but then I stop because I’m pretty sure it’s disappointment. But that would mean I wanted to fake date Nick, and that, surely, is a ridiculous notion. There’s no way I was sitting here, seriously waiting for one of the big deals at my publisher to ask me to fake date my ex-boyfriend.
Lauren is looking at me expectantly, like she needs more from me than a huff of breath.
And this is a woman with tons of power at my publisher, so I give it to her. “I’m super excited about it! Can’t wait to dive in and really get to work!” So much for fewer clichés.
A genuine smile lights up her face. “I think I speak for everyone at SVP when I say we can’t wait either. And I know I probably shouldn’t even say this, but I did mean it, you know, when I said I’d noticed how Nick was looking at you. There might not be feelings there on your side anymore, but I’d be willing to bet he can’t say the same.” She pats my shoulder the way my mother would. “Hope you have a good holiday, I heard that the storm should be clearing up tonight. Hopefully we can all head home tomorrow, just in time for Christmas.”
“Sounds amazing. Safe travels.” I try to inject some cheer into my voice, but her assessment of Nick, combined with everything else that’s happened in the past few days, well, it’s just too much. The thought of our time here at the inn coming to an end tomorrow should bring a sense of relief, but as hard as I search for that particular emotion in the jumble that is my mind, I can’t seem to find it. All I can parse out is uncertainty, and confusion, and a healthy dose of lingering lust.
I need clarity, and I need the truth.
So I march myself over to the elevator after a goodbye to Lauren. I stab at the button for our floor and continue my teenage-angst level stomping down the hallway to our door. I throw it open, expecting to find Nick lounging on the bed, or perched in the armchair, but of course the one time I actually want to see his face, he’s nowhere to be found.
I pace around the room for a minute, attempting to get my thoughts in order. When it becomes clear my pouting isn’t going to magically summon Nick from wherever the hell he is hiding out, I take out my computer and open our Google doc.
I find Nick’s cursor almost immediately because it’s right where I was headed to work out my sexual frustrations on the page—at the beginning of the sex scene. In each of our writing sessions we’ve had so far, we’ve ignored the spicy elephant in the room and skipped right over this section. I sort of assumed Nick would just leave me to write it, since it’s much more in my wheelhouse than his.
Then again, the sex scenes in the books Nick has written since our split have garnered several chili peppers, but maybe the on-page magic he’s written in the past can really be attributed to Gina’s good editing.
I don’t let myself imagine he’s found himself another critique partner.
I consider starting up a conversation in the comments again, but instead, I just watch Nick’s cursor, blinking away for a solid minute before words start to appear.
And I no longer wonder about who’s responsible for Nick’s sex scenes.
My mouth goes dry as I read in real time what Nick is writing. And there’s something about knowing he’s somewhere in this hotel, right this minute, with these kinds of images lingering in his mind. I’d like to say it has no effect on me, but I think it’s clear that would be a big fat lie.
The words stop pouring across the page, and before I can think about why I shouldn’t, I pick up right where he left off.
We take turns, going back and forth, giving and taking, and by the time we reach the climax of the scene—pun clearly intended—I’m breathless and a little bit sweaty, my heart pounding in my chest. Who knew writing could count as cardio?
I’m about to close my laptop, maybe go dive into one of the snow piles outside to cool my heated skin, but then Nick keeps typing.
He cups her cheek in his hand, perched over her, their chests pressed together so it feels as if their hearts beat as one. “I need you to know that I never stopped loving you. And if this is all you need from me, closure or one last time or a way to work out the sexual tension, if this is the last time I hold you in my arms, then I need you to know that I love you still. That I will love you always.”
My heart stops in my chest.
Sure, these words are coming from our hero, but I can’t help but wonder if they’re also coming from Nick. We would be fools to deny the sexual tension between us—it’s only been building since that first moment backstage, when just a single brush of his skin on mine sent my goose bumps into overdrive.
But is there something deeper here? Can there be something more?
Nick has only been back in my life less than a week—two if we want to count the week of DMing—but the impact is already undeniable. From the way his banter stoked the creative part of my brain that was dormant for months to the way a simple brush of his skin against mine during our stupid massage was more arousing than all the foreplay of my last three one-night stands combined. I would be an idiot to forget how he hurt me, but am I also an idiot if I don’t fully explore this? Even if it turns out to be nothing?
Part of me wants to reach out to Alyssa and Kennedy, call in some backup, but the bigger part of me is too afraid of what they might say. I feel like that should act as a warning of some sort, but I choose to ignore it.
Besides, time is of the essence here. Something tells me that once we leave this inn, once we lose this forced proximity, it will be too easy to walk away and never look back. Never get the answers I really need.
I slam my laptop shut before I call down to room service, ordering dinner and a bottle of wine. I travel down the hallway to the ice machine, filling the bucket so we have it on hand for later. I notice the bottle of whiskey has been cracked, but there’s still plenty left, more than enough for my needs.
I take a quick shower and put on some makeup. I’ve been wearing the same outfit for three days now, and my wardrobe options are limited. My underwear rotation means I’m back in the red lace thong and bra, thank god. I could put my red dress from the party back on, but I want to be comfortable, and nothing about sitting in skintight fabric is comfortable. So I slide into my jeans and steal a T-shirt from Nick’s bag. The cotton is soft on my skin, and it smells like him. I indulge in a whiff because there’s no one around to see me.
And then, when I’m fully ready, I take out my phone and text him. It’s been so long since I sent him a text that our old messages have disappeared, lost to the years of phone upgrades.
Me: Can you come up to the room? I think we need to talk.
It doesn’t take him more than a second to answer me.
Nick: Be right there.
I take a few steadying breaths. Though I’m not sure I’ll ever be truly ready for this. I don’t even know what I want to say to him, I just know that that elusive closure seems to be dangling right in front of me and this is my way of reaching out and grabbing it.
When the door to the room opens a minute later, I’m sitting in the armchair. The room service has been delivered, the extremely nice and patient employee helped me arrange the rolly little table in between the bed and armchair so we can both sit and pretend like we’re grown-ups having a real meal together.
Nick’s eyebrows shoot to the top of his forehead as he takes in the scene. “What’s all this?”
I gesture for him to take a seat. “I figured it was time we cut the bullshit and have a real conversation.”
His eyebrows creep up even farther. “Should I be scared right now? Why do I feel a sense of foreboding overcoming me?”
“Haha. I took the liberty of ordering dinner.” I wave my hands over the table like Vanna White.
“If this is my Christmas present, I feel like I should let you know I didn’t get you anything.” Nick hesitates for a second more before awkwardly sliding onto the bed and tucking his long legs under the tiny table.
I pick up my glass of wine and hold it up. “Cheers.”
Nick clinks his glass against mine. “What exactly are we toasting to?”
“How about an evening of honesty?” I look him right in the eyes as I sip my wine. I can’t afford seven years of bad sex, and I’m not taking any chances.
Nick’s brow furrows and there’s more than a hint of trepidation in his eyes. “Can I at least enjoy my dinner first?”
“I suppose.” I dig into the pasta dish sitting in front of me. It’s not bad, considering we’ve been eating from the same restaurant for days in a row.
“I stopped by the front desk on my way up and they let me know the storm is supposed to pass tonight. You should be able to head home tomorrow.” Nick takes a bite of his own pasta and lets out a little groan of appreciation.
I swallow thickly before responding because that groan sounded a lot like arousal, and we are not going there right now. “Yeah, I ran into Lauren in the lobby a little bit ago and she mentioned that.”
“I’m sure you’re excited to be getting out of here.”
I nod, though it feels like a lie. “You too, I’m sure.”
“I booked my room through the twenty-sixth, so I’ll be sticking around no matter what.” He downs a long swallow of wine. “Are you going to your parents’ house for Christmas?”
I shake my head. “It’s a travel year for them.”
Ever since that first Christmas Nick and I spent together, when I encouraged my parents to hit the road for the purely selfish reason of wanting to be alone with my new boyfriend, my parents have alternated between holidays at home with me and holidays traveling around the world. Usually the years when they’re not home, I go to Alyssa’s or Kennedy’s, or one or both of them come to me. But this year, it seems I’ll be all on my own.
I had been looking forward to it, honestly. But now the thought of waking up alone on Christmas sounds nothing short of awful.
“How are they doing?”
“They’re great. Out there living their best retirement lives.” My parents loved Nick, and though they respect me enough to never ask about him, I know for a fact my mom has read every single one of his books and follows him on Instagram.
“Please give them my best.”
“I will.” The outcome of this dinner will determine whether or not I do. I finish the rest of my wine. “How is your family doing?”
Nick refills my glass before answering. “They’re fine.”
He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t push. I only met Nick’s parents once in the three years we were together. They’re not bad people, and as far as I can tell, Nick had a perfectly pleasant childhood. But he doesn’t have much in common with his family, and once he moved to New York for college, none of them seemed too invested in staying in contact. I don’t think they ever got over him leaving Ohio and choosing not to join the family business. It wasn’t until he reached out to them with news of his upcoming six-figure book deal that they seemed to start to take him seriously, like his success suddenly made him worthwhile in their eyes. It always made me sad to think about when Nick and I were dating, but I think he’s okay with where their relationship stands, so I learned to leave it alone. I wonder if and how things have changed as he’s become more and more of a household name.
Nick clears his throat, drawing my attention to the troubled look in his hazel eyes. “I hope nothing that happened today, during the massage…or after, made you uncomfortable. That’s the last thing I would want.”
“I know. And I wasn’t uncomfortable.” Unless by uncomfortable, you mean uncomfortably aroused, that is. “This week sure has thrown a lot at us. I think we’re handling it as best we could.”
“Things haven’t exactly gone to plan, but I can’t say I’m sorry at how they’ve turned out.” He swirls the wine in his glass.
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, it’s been really good to see you again, Jess.” His voice is soft, layered with emotions. “I don’t think I realized how much I missed you until I saw you backstage.”
“That was probably mostly the dress,” I quip, needing to brush off the heaviness of his sentiment.
The corner of his mouth quirks up in what used to be my favorite half smile. “It sure as fuck didn’t hurt.”
My cheeks heat, and I know from experience they’re turning the color of the red wine left in my glass. I want to return his sentiment, about missing him, because I realize, sitting here with him and having a normal conversation, that it’s true. I have missed him. But I don’t know if I’m ready to admit it.
I divide the small amount of wine remaining in the bottle between each of our glasses. “You know how you always used to tell me that I rely too much on the miscommunication trope in my books?”
He frowns a little, confused about the shift in topic, but then he nods. “And you used to tell me that in real life, couples not being able to communicate was one of the biggest relationship struggles people have.”
“I stand by that.” I take in a deep breath. “But tonight, I want us to do better.”
Nick pushes his plate away, though he’s only eaten half of his pasta. I don’t think I can eat another bite either. I swig the last of my wine, and Nick does the same. We stack up our dishes and maneuver the table out into the hallway. I hang the Do Not Disturb sign on the knob before letting the door click shut behind me.
Nick resumes his position on the bed. Before I sink back into the armchair, I put a few ice cubes into two glasses and pour each of us a decent-sized slug of whiskey.
When I hand Nick his glass, our fingers brush and I experience one of those moments I’ve only written about, when a spark jumps between us.
“Here’s what I propose.” I settle into the armchair and wish this room were bigger so there could be a little more breathing room separating us. “We take turns asking questions. Honest answers only. If you don’t want to answer, you drink.”
He studies the caramel-colored liquid in his glass. “This seems like a dangerous game, Jess.”
I shrug. “Only if you aren’t willing to tell the truth.”
He sighs, and I watch the debate play out over his face. “Okay. But I reserve the right to put a stop to this at any point if things get out of hand.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. I’ll even be generous and let you go first.”
His head tilts to the side as he thinks. He always used to do that when he was writing and the familiar motion warms something in my already wine-warmed chest. “What’s your favorite book you’ve written?”
“Hmm. I love them all, obviously. But I think With a Twist is my favorite. There’s nothing like your first, I suppose.”
Nick nods, but I get the feeling he isn’t even really listening to my response. I can tell by the way his eyes pinch at the corners that he’s already stressed about what I’m going to ask him. And I’d be lying if I said that didn’t send a little thrill through me.
“My turn.” I smile at him, going for warm and friendly so he’ll feel at ease before I throw down the gauntlet. “Are you still in love with me?”