CHAPTER 11. Noah #2
When he’s done with me, Connor quickly wipes at the sheets too, then tosses the cloth into the bathroom hamper, turns off the light, and slides back into bed beside me.
He doesn’t move toward me right away—just lies on his back, staring up at the ceiling, close enough that I can feel the heat of him but not close enough to touch.
The space between us feels intentional. An escape route, maybe. A chance for one of us to decide this was a mistake and back away before morning comes.
I refuse to give him that out.
I shift toward him, curling into his side before I can second-guess myself. My head finds his shoulder, my arm draping across his chest. For a second, I think he might pull away—might say something about this being too much—but his arm comes around me instead.
I close my eyes and let my breathing slow, matching the rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek. My body is exhausted—pleasure still humming through my limbs, muscles loose with it—but my mind keeps circling the same thought.
This can be just for tonight, I tell myself. A one-time thing. Something to remember after we go back to being neighbors.
But as I drift toward sleep, I already know it won’t be that simple for me.
***
I wake with a start, my brain emerging from sleep like it’s swimming through molasses.
The sunlight streaming through the blinds is way too bright for morning. Did I forget to set an alarm?
My hand stretches across the sheets beside me, finding them cold and empty.
Connor’s gone.
Last night rushes back to me in vivid, toe-curling detail—Connor’s mouth on me, my hands in his hair, the way he flipped me over and—
Oh God.
My face burns hot enough to fry an egg as I grab my phone.
1:37 PM.
Shit.
Where is he?
I sit up so fast my vision blurs at the edges, heart hammering against my ribs. Half past one? How did I sleep so late? More importantly, where the hell is Connor?
My mind races through possibilities, each worse than the last. Maybe he woke up, remembered what happened between us, and realized it was a huge mistake.
Maybe he’s already packed his bag and gone back to the city.
Maybe he’s downstairs right now, explaining to my mother that he’s not actually my boyfriend and never was, that this whole thing was an elaborate lie that spiraled completely out of control the moment he put his mouth on my—
Fuck.
I force air into my lungs, trying to calm the anxiety tornado whirling through my chest. There are perfectly reasonable explanations for Connor’s absence that don’t involve him fleeing the state.
He probably just went to get breakfast. Or coffee.
Or literally anything normal people do in the morning when they wake up at a reasonable hour.
But what if he regrets it?
What if last night was just whiskey and proximity and nothing more?
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, wincing slightly at the twinge in my lower back—a physical reminder of Connor behind me, his hands on my hips, the weight of him pressing me into the mattress.
The memory sends a fresh wave of heat through my body that’s equal parts embarrassment and arousal.
God, I put on a show for him. I literally begged him to fuck me like some kind of… I don’t even know.
Who even does that?
Apparently, I do.
When Connor O’Reilly is involved.
I grab my phone again, checking for messages. Nothing from Connor, but I have three texts from Maya, sent a couple of hours ago.
Where are you guys?
Mom’s asking if you’re alive
And one sent an hour ago:
Connor says you’re still sleeping but it’s past noon, Noah. Get your ass up.
So Connor has been with my family.
That’s…something.
At least he didn’t flee in the night.
I stumble into the bathroom and catch sight of myself in the mirror.
I look like I’ve been thoroughly debauched.
Which, to be fair, I have. Ruffled hair, swollen lips, and the pink, just-got-fucked glow of a man who should not be allowed anywhere near family breakfast.
Jesus.
The shower is calling my name. I turn the water as hot as it will go and step under the spray, letting it pound against my shoulders as I try to sort through the jumble of thoughts and feelings that have been piling up since this weekend began.
Yes, I know. Shower is my free therapist.
Anyway.
Connor and I had sex. Not the full deal, but close enough that my entire body still hums with the memory of it. And it wasn’t part of the act, because thankfully, nobody was watching. It was just us, alone in the room, wanting each other.
But he was drunk.
He said he wasn’t too drunk, but he could have lied.
And I was drunk too, but definitely not that drunk.
Should I have stopped him? What if he only touched me because the whiskey lowered his inhibitions?
What if it meant nothing to him beyond a convenient way to get himself off after a frustrating night?
I scrub shampoo through my hair, frowning to myself.
I don’t know what to make of any of this. Connor. His sudden outburst. The sex. Any of it.
I’ve spent so long thinking of him as straight, as my neighbor, as someone completely unattainable.
And now…
Now what?
We go back to the city and pretend none of this happened? We hook up occasionally? We try to date for real?
The possibilities make my head spin.
And, to be fair, I would agree to either of the last two options.
If he wanted that.
I finish showering in record time, painfully aware of how late I am and how much of the day I’ve already wasted. I wrap a towel around my waist and step back into the bedroom, still dripping.
I freeze in the doorway.
Connor is sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling through his phone.
He glances up when I appear, and the smile that spreads across his face is enough to make my knees weak. He seems annoyingly fresh, with no trace of a hangover, wearing a simple white T-shirt and dark joggers that make his thighs look like they were sculpted by Michelangelo himself.
“Morning,” he says, his voice warm with amusement, no trace of regret or awkwardness—thank God. He checks the time on his phone. “Or should I say afternoon?” His eyes do a quick sweep from my face down to my towel-covered hips and back up again, so fast it looks like a slip.
“I—” My voice catches in my throat. I’m suddenly very aware that I’m half naked, water still beading on my skin. Heat climbs up my neck, burning my cheeks. “I overslept.”
Connor nods. “I tried to wake you earlier, but you just mumbled something about five more minutes and rolled over.”
“Oh.” I try to remember this and come up empty. “Sorry.”
Connor puts his phone away and stands, closing the distance between us in two long strides.
My heart skips, then starts racing as he stops just inches away.
He’s so close I can smell his shaving cream and the faint trace of his cologne.
His eyes look so impossibly blue in the afternoon light that I can’t look away.
“Don’t be,” he says softly, lifting one hand to cup my jaw, his thumb brushing over my cheek. “I know by now that you love sleeping.”
And then he kisses me.
Jesus Mary and Joseph, the second our lips touch, my heart starts pounding so loudly in my ears that it feels like I’m about to have a heart attack.
His mouth moves against mine with careful focus, like he’s savoring the taste of me.
My knees actually wobble, and I have to grab his shoulders to stay upright.
To my utter disappointment, the kiss ends too fast.
When Connor pulls back, my lips chase his for a split second before I catch myself. His eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide, and there’s a flush high on his cheekbones that makes my stomach flip.
“Hi,” I whisper, because apparently my brain has forgotten how to form actual sentences.
“Hi,” he echoes, his hand still warm against my cheek.
We stare at each other for a long moment, and I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a precipice, like the next words out of either of our mouths might send me tumbling over.
“I—um—I don’t usually sleep this late,” I say finally, then immediately want to kick myself, because of all the things I could have said after that kiss, that’s what came out.
But Connor just chuckles, his thumb tracing the curve of my jaw. “You’ve been sleeping a lot this weekend,” he says. “Do you usually have trouble sleeping or something?”
The question catches me off guard with how painfully accurate it is.
“Yeah, actually,” I admit. “I mean, I sleep, but…not well. Not usually this deeply.”
Something shifts in Connor’s expression, a softness around his eyes, a slight curve at the corner of his mouth.
“That’s good, then,” he says. “That you’re sleeping well here.”
I freeze, wondering if he’s figured it out—if he knows I’ve only been sleeping this well because he’s been beside me.
I can’t tell, so I clear my throat and take a small step back, needing a second to get my thoughts in order. “Have you been up long? Did you have breakfast already?”
“I had coffee with your family,” Connor says, crossing his arms over his chest like he didn’t just scorch my entire nervous system with that kiss.
“Maya came by around eleven to get us, but you were too out of it to wake up, so I went with her to the Main Cottage. Your parents were having brunch out on the deck, and I sat with them for a while.”
My heart skips at the mention of Maya. Last night, before dinner, she accidentally found out about our fake relationship, so I panicked and told her everything—about Rick, about the lie, about how none of this is real. Except…maybe some of it is real now? I don’t even know anymore.
Anyway, she was really pissed at me. Not just because I lied to Mom and Dad, but because I wasn’t honest with her either. She had no idea about Rick, so the whole thing kind of threw her off. And if she and Connor spent the morning together, there’s no way she didn’t have questions.
“Was Maya…” I start, unsure how to phrase it. Hard on you? Interrogating you? Threatening to expose our lie? “Was she…okay with you?”