10. nathan
10
nathan
"I'm sorry, sir, but that's the lowest priced room we have," the front desk worker says, flashing a sympathetic smile.
Caleb is insane. Eight hundred bucks for one night in a standard room? That’s my whole damn trip budget—gone. How the hell am I supposed to swing this and still afford my rent next week?
"I can’t believe you talked me into coming here. I can’t stay here. I’ll find another hotel. This is ridiculous."
"Dude, it’s Pride weekend. Every hotel in the city is booked. It’s not that complicated. You're stuck. I’ll pay." He pulls out his annoyingly sleek wallet like it’s no big deal.
"There’s no way," I snap, grabbing his arm. God, I hate him. Hate his smugness. His timing. His everything. Of course he’d pick this weekend, this one, to reappear and blow up my plans.
And now this—dragging me to some absurdly overpriced hotel just to remind me I can't afford it on my own. Yet another thing Caleb can do better.
“Relax,” he says, cool as ever. “I’m just offering you a solution.”
“Oh, and you just love that, don’t you? My own personal hero. Always saving the day.” I roll my eyes and pull out my phone, searching for literally anywhere else to sleep. But to my luck, everything’s either sold out or priced up the ass.
He was right. I’m screwed.
I look up to see him handing me another room key card. “What is that?”
“What do you think it is?”
I stare at it. “Seriously?”
“Shut up and come on,” he says, walking backward toward the elevator. “We’ll talk over a drink.”
I want to protest. Really, I do. But I’m not stupid . He’s offering me a free bed. And the reality is, I’m stranded. And yes, I hate him—but I’m also not sleeping on the street.
“Fine,” I huff, trailing behind.
This weekend is already a disaster.
***
“You’ve got to be kidding me…”
My jaw drops as we step inside. The room looks like it belongs in a luxury magazine. The warm chestnut cabinets. Marble countertops. Floor-to-ceiling windows showing off downtown Toronto in all its glittering glory.
Even the inner artist in me is impressed.
I spot the giant king-sized bed on the one side of the room and snort. “One bed?… I’m assuming I get the couch?”
Caleb arches a brow. “Did you want to climb up in the bed with me like old times?”
My eyes narrow. Here he goes forcing old memories at me, reminding me instantly how big of an ass he is to ruin it all. “Fuck you,” I reply.
Honestly, it’s generous of him to let me stay at all. But still… this weird tension is hanging in the air and comments like that aren’t making it any better.
I drop onto the couch. “I’d rather not think about us actually being friends.”
“ Friends is an understatement but I’ll let that slide. First—drinks. Then we trauma-bond.” He heads toward the bedroom side of the suite—open concept, so I really have no choice but to look as he peels off his shirt.
He’s always doing that. Shirtless at any given opportunity. Even back in high school. Just had to show off how attractive he was. It’s like he thinks that’s his only good trait or something. I shift in my seat, trying not to stare…but my eyes betray me, tracing every muscle and tattoo scattered across his chest and ribcage.
Goddamn. Looks like he hasn’t lost one ounce of muscle since high school.
A glass appears in front of my face snapping me out of my head. “Here.”
Shit. Was I staring?
“Oh. Thanks,” I say, clearing my throat. “What is it?” I sniff the drink but there’s barely any smell.
“Vodka and Sprite. Best the minibar could do.” He shrugs and sinks onto the couch beside me.
This is the most we’ve talked in years . Strange how normal it feels being around him… until I remember how it all ended.
I can’t believe I’m actually here. With him.
I take a long sip.
“Easy there, it’s not going anywhere,” Caleb chuckles, draping an arm across the back of the couch.
His tattoos from his chest stretch down and along his forearms, all the way to the little designs on his fingers—so many more than he had before. I glance at my own clean skin and roll my eyes. He’s just always been... more. Cooler. Louder. More intense.
No wonder Sarah did what she did. He drips sexual energy like it’s his day job.
I sigh, resting my head back on the couch.“Out of all places in the world. Why’d you have to be here?”
He smirks. “I could ask you the same thing, Nathaniel.”
I flinch. “Don’t call me that. You know that’s not my name.”
“It is to me,” he says, low and quiet. My eyes shoot to him to see him watching me intentively. I glance away, annoyed at the way my pulse stutters. Fuck, I hate when it does that.
He shifts in his seat. “Look, I know you don’t want to hear it. But I’m here for Sarah.”
I let out a laugh—sharp and dry.
“What?”
“Of course it’s for her .” I take another sip.
He nods, unsurprised. “I’m guessing that’s why you’re here too.”
“Obviously.” I shrug simply. “It’s always been her,” I admit. The words leave a bad taste in my mouth.
He studies my face before looking down at his drink. “I’m not here to win.”
I raise a brow. “Good. Because I’m not losing to you. Not again.”
Caleb looks up, startled—but then smiles. “I wouldn’t want you to.”
A beat passes.
“Why’d you do it?” I ask. “Prom night.”
He doesn’t ask what I mean. We both are thinking about it so let’s just get it out in the open.
“Just like that, eh?” He shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
“Just like that,” I narrow my eyes.
“I thought… if I showed you, maybe you’d finally see she wasn’t right for you.”
“You just had to show me,” I say, shaking my head. “Why?”
“Because I knew Sarah wasn’t the type of girl to be serious. You were just bound to get hurt—”
“No, why did you need to be the one to show me that?” I ask again.
He pauses. “Because... if anyone was going to save you, I wanted it to be me…”
I stare at him. That might be the dumbest heroic fantasy I’ve ever heard. He was always…acting like he wanted to be my caretaker or something. Put me under his wing and protect me. Was this seriously just another one of his ways of trying to be there for me?
Honestly, it sounds like the impulsive dumbass thing he would do. Perfectly on brand for him.
“It’s getting late,” I mutter.
“It’s eight o’clock.”
“Feels later.”
He laughs. “Another drink? Room service? Brooklyn Nine-Nine?”
I shrug. “Sure. But if they don’t have chicken fingers, I’m punching you.”
“Chicken fingers? What are you, five?”
“Say what you want. Chicken fingers with Thai chili sauce slap.”
He grins. “I’ll get calamari.”
“It’s eight o’clock at night. Who just orders calamari?” I laugh as he hands me another drink.
“Don’t knock it until you try it.” He pats his stomach dramatically. I slap it in response.
“Ow!” he yelps, lunging toward me. An embarrassing scream-laugh escapes my lips as his fingers start tickling me mercilessly. Not this.
I try to get away but it’s too late—he’s on a roll, and he knows exactly what he’s doing. This is exactly the shit he used to pull when we used to hangout and it looks like he hasn’t grown out of it.
He lunges with a mischievous grin, fingers flying to my sides like he’s on a mission, and I can’t stop laughing. I want to stop but I can’t. I thrash and twist, trying to escape, but he’s relentless. His fingers dig under my shirt, skating across my ribs, grazing my sensitive skin. It’s too much. It’s all too much. I can feel the goosebumps spread across my body from head to toe. My legs kick out beneath me, and I collapse onto the couch.
“Caleb!” I gasp through laughter, breathless, half-wheezing.
My skin burns where he touches, and not just from the sensation. There’s something deeper stirring now. Something dangerous.
I can’t breathe, can’t think. He’s everywhere.
His bare skin brushes mine as he leans closer, the warmth of his body pressing into me. I feel the strength in his thighs caging me in, the weight of him grounding me in place. My laughter fades into shallow, shaky breaths. My chest rises and falls rapidly. The air between us shifts.
Then, suddenly, it hits me like a punch to the gut.
A rush of memories slams into me, vivid like it was just yesterday.
I remember the way his jaw flexed as he kissed her. His hands were tight around her waist, pulling her in like he couldn’t get close enough.
My stomach flips. My chest tightens.
And I remember watching him—watching him, not her—completely fixated on the way his muscles tensed as he held her close. The way his lips moved against hers—slow, then deeper. The way his eyes opened and locked onto mine. As if it was some joke. As if he was sucking me in as he sucked down her kisses.
I should’ve looked away. I should’ve turned and left.
But I couldn’t.
Because in that moment, all I could think was how I wanted to be the one pulled in.
I wanted his hands on me.
“Stop. Get the fuck off of me!” I say it louder, firmer this time, batting his hands away with more force.
He freezes. “Shit. Sorry—”
“Just… shut up and order the food,” I say, getting up. “You’re paying.”
I escape to the bathroom and shut the door behind me.
Against the cool wooden door, I try to steady my breathing.
But it’s no use.
My shorts are tight. Too tight.
Shit.