Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Kat
I wake up with my heart racing, the remnants of whatever dreams I was having fading.
But my body remembers exactly what happened last night—every detail, every sensation.
The sheets are twisted around my legs like I’ve been tossing and turning all night, and my skin feels flushed even though the room isn’t particularly warm.
I’m pretty sure my dreams picked up right where Asher and I left off, because I’m still buzzing with a flush of arousal.
My skin tingles beneath the soft cotton of my tank top, goosebumps forming as the sheets brush against me.
Heat pools low in my belly as I think about the way Asher looked at me through the window, about all the things he texted me, filthy and encouraging.
The way it felt when I came, knowing he could see me.
I glance over at the guest house through my bedroom window, my stomach flip-flopping.
We didn’t even close the curtains last night.
The realization hits me again, making my cheeks go hot.
Looking across the distance now in the morning light, I can see that the curtains are still open on his side too.
I’ve never done anything like that before. Never been that bold, that uninhibited with anyone. I bury my face in my hands as a thrill of embarrassment mixed with excitement rushes through me.
Who even am I? When did I get so bold?
But for once, I wasn’t overthinking, getting lost in my head or trapped by self-consciousness. All I was thinking about was how much I wanted him, how much I needed some kind of release from this tension that’s been building between us for days.
I thought the fake sex thing the other night was one of the hottest moments of my life—which is honestly kind of sad since it wasn’t even real. But holy fuck, this dwarfed that in every way. Last night was the most erotic moment of my life by a long shot, and we weren’t even in the same room.
A knock at the back door makes me jolt upright, my heart leaping into my throat. Without even looking outside, I know it’s him. Our morning coffee routine has become a regular thing between us, a daily ritual I’ve come to look forward to as we both get our first caffeine fix of the day.
Now I just need to figure out how to act normal after last night. How to look him in the eye without thinking about what we did.
I get up quickly, my legs a bit shaky, and run my hand through my messy hair as I check my appearance in the mirror over my dresser.
I look rumpled and flushed, my hair tangled from sleep.
But there’s not much I can do about it without taking time to shower and change, and he’s already at the door.
So I head downstairs in my sleep shorts and tank top, trying to look composed even though my pulse is racing.
When I open the door, Asher stands there like he does every morning, so fucking gorgeous that it makes my stomach flip.
His dark hair is messy, making me think he just woke up too, and his blue-grey eyes match the wintery scene around him perfectly.
He hasn’t shaved yet, and there’s a hint of stubble on his jaw that I can’t help but imagine feeling against my skin.
I can still remember the way his forearm flexed as he stroked himself last night, the corded muscles tight, or the way his abs tensed when he got close. The memory sends my pulse racing all over again, heat pouring through me.
He shoots me a crooked grin that makes my knees a little weak. “Coffee?”
I laugh, some of the tension breaking at the familiar greeting. “Coffee. Always coffee.”
I open the door wider and he comes in. As we head to the kitchen, I ask, “How did you sleep?”
“Like a baby.” There’s something in his tone, a hint of satisfaction or amusement, that makes me wonder if he had dreams like mine. “You?”
“Good. Yeah, good.” I’m definitely not telling him about the dreams that had us picking up where we left off.
In the kitchen, I’m incredibly aware of him as we go about what’s become our usual routine.
Every movement he makes, every breath, feels magnified.
I put the coffee on, measuring out the grounds with slightly shaking hands, and he grabs my caramel creamer out of the fridge without being asked, leaving it out on the counter where I’ll need it.
It all feels normal. Familiar. These small gestures we’ve developed over the past week, the easy rhythm we’ve fallen into—except for how carefully we’re each acting casual, as if we’re both working a little too hard to seem relaxed.
Moving around each other with deliberate politeness, making sure not to get too close.
When the coffee is ready, I pour each of us a cup. Steam rises from my mug, carrying that rich smell, and I add in my creamer and then wrap my hands around the ceramic just to have something to hold on to.
“So…” I start, then trail off because I have no idea how to finish that sentence.
“So,” he echoes, and I can hear in his voice that he’s just as lost for the next words as I am.
Last night over text was so easy. The words just flowed without thinking, the distance making me braver.
But last night I was caught up in the moment, riding a wave of arousal and boldness.
And there was still that little buffer between us, that physical distance.
Each of us in our own space, our own rooms. Safe in our separate buildings.
Face to face like this, in the morning light with coffee and the mundane routine, it’s harder to figure out how to act.
I want to ask him what this means. If it changes anything about our arrangement. If he wants it to happen again. But I can’t seem to make myself voice any of those questions.
What if he regrets it? What if he thinks it was a mistake?
“I was thinking—” I start.
“I need to—” he says at exactly the same time.
We both stop, laughing awkwardly. The sound breaks some of the tension, and I shake my head wryly, gesturing to him.
“You go,” I tell him, taking a sip of my coffee.
“I need to go to my dad’s place again today. Gotta pick up his prescriptions from the pharmacy, help him with some stuff around the house.” He runs his free hand through his hair, messing it up more. “I’ll probably be gone most of the afternoon.”
Disappointment zips through me, sharp and unexpected. I was hoping he’d be around today, but I hide it, keeping my expression neutral.
“That’s nice of you,” I say sincerely. “I know it means a lot to him that you’re here.”
I know that helping his dad was the whole reason he came to Maplewood in the first place. Edward needs the help, especially with his injury.
“What about you?” Asher asks, his gaze intent on my face. “Plans for the day?”
“Probably some sketching for a while. I’ve been working on quick character studies lately.” I shift the mug between my hands. “Doing really fast versions of a character in different poses and expressions, trying to get better at capturing movement and emotion quickly.”
He nods, an impressed look passing over his features. “That sounds really cool. Could I see some of them sometime?”
“Oh.” I blink, then shrug, my heart kicking. “Yeah, maybe.”
The thought of showing him my rough sketches makes me nervous, but in a good way.
“I might go check out the Christmas market downtown later too,” I add. “The one by the courthouse. I used to go every year as a kid with my family. It’s usually fun, and they have good food and handmade ornaments and stuff.”
He grins. “That sounds like fun. I remember seeing signs for it when I was driving through town.”
We both make breakfast after that, and some of the awkwardness fades as we move around the kitchen together.
He makes eggs while I toast bread and slice up an avocado.
The shared resources part of our fake dating plan has worked out amazingly well, thankfully.
We’re pretty good at co-existing in the same space.
But I’m very aware that neither of us has mentioned what happened last night. It’s like this thing hanging over us, this big unacknowledged presence in the room that we’re both carefully stepping around.
After we eat, Asher gets up to go. He rinses his plate and puts it in the dishwasher, then heads for the back door.
“Tell your dad I said hi,” I say as I trail down the hallway after him.
“I will.” He opens the door, letting in a small blast of cold air, then glances over his shoulder at me, giving me a look I can’t quite read. There’s something intense in his gaze, searching. “I’ll see you later?”
“Yeah. Later.” I try to smile naturally.
For a second, I think he’s going to say something else. His mouth opens slightly as if he’s about to speak. But then he just nods and heads out into the cold morning.
I lean against the hallway wall, blowing out a long breath before shoving my hair back from my face, frustrated with myself.
Dammit. I totally chickened out. I should have brought it up, should have asked him what last night meant.
But I didn’t, and now he’s gone for the day and the moment has passed.
Maybe this is better though. Less complicated, certainly.
But even as I have that thought, it doesn’t really convince me.
I spend the morning sketching like I told Asher I would. I settle into my art station by the windows, putting on music to help me focus. The soothing work helps quiet my restless thoughts, my hand moving across the page in familiar patterns.
I do character studies like I described, setting my timer and forcing myself to capture full figures quickly. Different poses, different expressions. Running, sitting, reaching. The time constraint actually helps, making me focus on the essential lines instead of getting lost in details.
But Asher lingers at the edges of my mind no matter how hard I try to focus. The memory of last night keeps surfacing, pulling my attention away from my work.