28. You’re Naked
CHAPTER 28
YOU’RE NAKED
NORA
The early morning air clings to my skin as I push through Eden's quiet streets. My feet pound against the pavement in a steady rhythm that keeps me grounded, each step an attempt to outrun the thoughts that have haunted me since that night last summer—since seeing Evan here again. His presence lingers like the smell of smoke in an empty house—subtle at first, then suddenly suffocating as you realize what it might mean.
Running became my salvation after Dad died. After finding him sprawled on the living room floor.
One year ago today.
The anniversary sits heavy in my chest, a weight no amount of miles can shed. I remember the way time fractured in that moment—before and after—how I stood frozen in the doorway, how the neighbors heard my screams before I even registered I was making them.
What started as an escape from grief transformed into my daily ritual, my slice of freedom when life feels unbearably heavy. On mornings like this, with dew still glistening on the grass and the world half-asleep, I can almost pretend he's waiting at home, coffee brewing, asking about my route when I return.
Almost.
Even as my muscles burn and the world blurs around me, I can't escape the pain. That's the thing about pain... it doesn't care how fast you run or how desperately you try to outpace it. It lives in your bones, travels with you, waits patiently for quiet moments to remind you it never left. The pain of what happened last summer. I can't outrun the fact that today marks twelve months since I became the girl who found her father dead, and had a piece of her soul stolen from her.
The streets are empty save for an elderly couple tending to their garden. I keep my eyes fixed on the ground, fighting the urge to take in my surroundings. The last thing I need is an early morning panic attack.
At the beach, waves lap against the shore in gentle contradiction to my racing thoughts. I pause, breath ragged, staring at the horizon painted in dawn's watercolors. The question that's been eating at me surfaces again: What would I do if I saw Evan? Would I crumble, or finally stand my ground?
My mind drifts to Nate.
The way he knew exactly how to calm me down during my panic attack, breathing with me when I couldn't remember how. There was something familiar in his understanding, like he'd had to do that hundreds of times before himself. The thought tugs at something deep within me, making me wonder what else lies beneath his stoic exterior.
That late-night drive reminded me of simpler times, when Nate first got his license and drove straight to my house just so we could listen to the new Kings Of Leon album together. We barely spoke then, just let the music fill the space between us, but I felt untouchable with him there. Last night felt the same, yet different, charged with something new and unnamed.
Back home, the house is silent when I slip inside. With headphones still in, I head upstairs, my body humming from exertion but my mind clearer, the morning fog lifting just enough to breathe. I push open the bathroom door and my breath catches. My phone clatters to the floor as I collide with a wall of muscle. Nate stands there, fresh from the shower, with only a towel slung low on his hips. Steam curls around him like something out of mythology. Water trails down his face, catching in dark strands of hair. His skin glistens, each muscle and contour sharply defined as if carved from marble. The scars mapping his skin tell stories of battles fought and won, only adding to his allure. My heart aches with a mixture of awe and something deeper, more dangerous.
I'm staring, and we both know it.
The pull between us is magnetic, impossible to resist. My breath hitches as my gaze drops to his chest, then snaps back to his eyes. My heart pounds so hard I swear he can hear it.
He catches my eye and grins. "Hi."
Words jam in my throat. He laughs, stepping closer, and the air between us crackles with electricity.
"You're naked," I blurt out.
The laugh sends shivers down my spine. I'm speechless, still unable to look away. He leans in close enough that his breath fans warm across my cheek, the scent of mint toothpaste teasing my senses.
"If you're gonna keep staring," he whispers, his voice dropping to a velvet rumble as his smirk deepens, "at least buy me dinner first." The words hang between us like a promise, an invitation in the narrowing space.
"I—I wasn't??—"
"Your face says otherwise," he teases, folding his arms and flexing, making it impossible not to notice every defined muscle.
I roll my eyes, attempting deflection, but my racing heart betrays me. This isn't the Nate of my childhood anymore—he's transformed into something more, something overwhelming.
The greenish-gold of his eyes burns fierce, but there's a shift. The vulnerability I've glimpsed these past few days vanishes, replaced by raw hunger that steals my breath.
"Are you done?" My voice wavers.
"Are we done?" His tone is low, teasing, with an edge that sends electricity through my veins.
"What?" I blink, disoriented.
"Huh?" He tilts his head, clearly enjoying my struggle to keep my eyes off his ripped body.
Shit.
My body refuses to move, every nerve ignited. Nate bends down slowly, grip tightening on his towel as he retrieves my forgotten phone. He stays on one knee, looking up through those impossibly long lashes, lips curled in that infuriating smile that makes my stomach flip.
"You dropped this."
"Right. Thanks." The words sound foreign in my ears.
He stands and somehow the space between us is even smaller. I try to brush past him, his heat nearly suffocates me. When he finally lets me pass, I slam the door behind me. Only when his footsteps fade do I exhale, pressing my forehead against the cool surface. Just as I'm about to shower, a knock startles me. I reach for a towel only to realize there are none.
Perfect.
I crack the door open carefully, hiding behind it. There's Nate—fully clothed now, thank God—holding fresh towels, his smirk unchanged.
"You might need these." His eyes glint knowingly.
"Thank you," I manage, clutching the doorframe like a lifeline while keeping my naked body hidden behind it. "Wouldn't want another naked run-in, would we?" The words escape before I can stop them, hanging in the air between us like an accidental invitation.
Nate's eyes darken perceptibly, the transition so subtle yet so powerful it steals my breath. He leans against the doorframe with one arm, the defined muscles of his forearm tensing visibly beneath sun-kissed skin. His bicep flexes against the fabric of his shirt, the cotton stretching taut over the curve of muscle. His body angles closer to mine, close enough that I catch the lingering scent of his cologne and now I feel drunk off his scent alone.
Dear God.
"I wouldn't hate it," he murmurs, voice dropping to that dangerous register that seems to vibrate directly against my skin. His cocky grin spreads slowly, deliberately, revealing perfect teeth and the hint of a dimple I haven’t seen in a long time. The look in his eyes is equal parts playful and hungry, as if he's imagining exactly what he'd see if the door between us disappeared.
What the hell is happening right now?
Heat floods my cheeks and cascades downward, warming places I refuse to acknowledge. I accept the towels with trembling fingers, our skin brushing again in a contact that feels anything but accidental. His thumb traces the lightest circle on my wrist before releasing me.
"Enjoy your shower, Nora," he says, my name on his lips sounding like something sinful, something sacred.
I close the door quickly, perhaps too quickly, leaning against it as steam from the running shower swirls around me. My heart hammers against my ribs—a chaotic rhythm that has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with that deeper, more primal sensation I've been trying desperately to ignore since the day we met.
The bathroom mirror has begun to fog, but not before I catch a glimpse of my reflection—flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, lips slightly parted. I barely recognize myself, this woman undone by a few words and meaningful glances.
I step into the shower, letting hot water cascade over me, but it does nothing to cool the burning awareness that has taken root beneath my skin. His voice echoes in my mind: I wouldn't hate it.
Four simple words that have somehow rewritten everything between us.
The shower was exactly what I needed, but I'm still not sure what to make of the whole Nate situation. I thought I was confused before our little morning run in. But now, my mind feels like a mess of tangled wires, each thought connected to him. Every time I try to pull away, I get shocked.
I need air.
Fresh, un-Nate-filled air.
Lydia and Mom decide to head out for errands soon after, and I jump at the chance to join them. Lydia has a million things to do for the gala she's chairing, and it's the perfect opportunity to bury my thoughts in something that doesn't involve a broody, dark-haired guy who makes wearing a low-slung towel look like it deserves to be on a billboard.
The annual Eden Charity gala commands attention as one of the town's most prestigious events. As kids, we'd stay home with Dad while Mom supported her best friend. Now, with this year marking the twentieth anniversary, Lydia's been planning for months to make it the biggest yet. The event raises money for community housing and local projects—proof that beneath Lydia's polished exterior beats a heart of gold. She's not just about the glitz and glamor; she genuinely cares about making a difference. As we browse high-end stores, Lydia's enthusiasm bubbles over.
"We've already raised more than ever, but being the twentieth anniversary, it has to leave a mark." She dives into details about the silent auction, champagne reception, and keynote speakers, her energy infectious.
As her charity plans wind down, Lydia's expression shifts to something more personal.
"So, Nora," she says, perching on a nearby bench with the air of someone settling in for gossip, "Any special someone in your life?"
I shrug with practiced nonchalance.
"No. School's been intense this year. Haven't had time for socializing, let alone dating." I keep it brief, already steering the conversation back to safer waters. "What community projects are you supporting this year?"
She takes the bait, and I'm off the hook—at least temporarily.
After hours of shopping, my stomach protests with gremlin-like sounds, making Lydia's suggestion of brunch sound like salvation. We pass a building under renovation, windows masked with brown paper, fresh paint glistening on the exterior. Lydia halts mid-stride, recognition sparking in her eyes.
"Oh, this is the place I was telling you about, Kat!" She gestures enthusiastically. "Some big shot out of towner is turning it into a wine bar. Word around the country club is he's quite the catch, not my words, but the ladies at brunch are certainly intrigued."
As if summoned, Nick appears, juggling heavy boxes. Under the bright sunlight, his golden hair frames his well-chiseled jaw, softening his sharp edges. His face brightens at the sight of us.
"Nora, hey."
I manage an awkward wave. "Nick, hey. This is Lydia and my Mom..."
"Katherine or just Kat," mom interjects, her tone clipped.
Nick's warm smile doesn't waver as he nods respectfully, his gaze lingering curiously on Mom.
"Nice to meet you both."
"Do you need help with those?" I gesture to the boxes, though his straining biceps suggest he's more than capable.
Setting them down with a grunt, he flashes a tired grin.
"I've got it, thanks." He straightens up, his presence both commanding and welcoming. "But come in, let me show you around."
Inside, the interior stretches out, luxury waiting to be unveiled. "We're aiming for one of the East Coast's finest wine bars, but keeping it casual-elegant," he explains, enthusiasm evident in every gesture. "Renovations wrap up soon, now that I've got help coming."
I notice his subtle glances at Mom as he describes his plans, trying to draw her into conversations about décor. But Mom remains politely distant, her heart still carefully guarded since Dad's passing. While Nick fetches wine samples, Lydia leans in conspiratorially.
"I'm playing matchmaker here. Are you okay with that?"
Watching Mom's interaction with Nick, I raise a skeptical eyebrow. "I'm not sure that's going to work out."
Lydia's eyes sparkle with mischief. "That man hasn't taken his eyes off her, and she's not as indifferent as she seems."
Nick returns with drinks, offering me a specialty non-alcoholic option with a knowing wink. "Thought you'd prefer this. Still good though."
As we sample our drinks, he outlines his timeline, mentioning contractor troubles. Lydia jumps in,
"You know, my son Nate could help. He needs something to keep himself busy this summer."
Nick's surprise is evident. "Nate? Nate Sullivan?"
Lydia half-jokes, "Please don't tell me he's caused trouble."
"No trouble," Nick laughs. "He actually offered to help when he visited my uncle's bookstore. He's coming in later today actually."
The revelation startles both Lydia and me. Nate at the bookstore? Volunteering?
Mom interjects proudly, "Well, Nate's always been handy with a great eye for detail. You'll have this place fixed up in no time."
I nod, lost in thought. Mom's always seen something special in Nate—something I'm beginning to understand myself.
At Criniti's, we claim a cozy corner booth, perfect for Lydia's conspiratorial glances between Mom and Nick. The conversation inevitably turns to him.
"So...," Lydia draws out his name, eyeing Mom suggestively.
"Lydia, no," Mom cuts her off with a knowing head shake.
"I didn't say anything!"
"Your face says plenty," Mom retorts, rolling her eyes playfully.
"I'm just saying he's single. And??—"
"You don't know that," Mom interrupts, crossing her arms defensively.
Lydia sips her wine with exaggerated elegance. "Please, the Country Club gossips could out-sleuth the FBI. He's definitely single. And successful. And hot. Really hot."
The tension thickens as Mom shifts uncomfortably. We've never really discussed her dating since Dad, and her reluctance is clear. It pains me to see her so closed off.
"He's really nice, Mom," I offer softly, surprising both women. Mom's expression softens as she traces her coffee cup's rim.
"I—I just don't know if I'm ready. It's been so long... since your Dad." The familiar pang in my chest sharpens. Dad was her great love—how could anyone compare?
Lydia persists, "What if we invited him to the Fourth of July party? Just as a welcome to Eden gesture?" Mom scoffs at the transparent suggestion.
Checking her watch, Lydia changes course.
"Think about it. We should go—Jake will be here soon. I'll get the bill." As she stands, she wobbles slightly, catching herself on the table. "Should've worn better shoes," she jokes, drawing a soft chuckle from Mom. I take the moment to excuse myself to the bathroom.
Threading through the narrow restaurant, the ambient chatter fades as a group of teenagers bursts in, their laughter bouncing off the walls. Their carefree energy highlights just how heavy my world has become. I keep my head down, hoping to slip past unnoticed, but something about their voices pulls at me.
They sound familiar—too familiar—and my stomach clenches with recognition.