Chapter 13 #2
Lochlan turned to Nia. The left side of her hair was plastered with beige goo, dripping onto her equally drenched clothes.
She looked like she’d been caught in a batter storm.
He glanced down at himself—his chest and lap were soaked, the cold batter seeping through the fabric and clinging uncomfortably to his skin.
When he glanced up, Nia’s eyes were glistening with barely contained laughter.
“Come on,” she murmured, grabbing his hand and pulling him along behind her. They wove through the thinning crowd toward her building, stopping at a door labeled Private Apartments. “We can use my place,” she said, swiping her key. “I need to rinse my hair. And I might have a shirt you can borrow.”
They climbed the stairs in silence, the tension between them building with each step.
The inside of her apartment was… mostly empty space. She gestured toward the kitchen before heading for a nearby closet, rummaging around for a towel and a shirt.
“Here, this should do,” she said, handing him a bundle of cloth. “I’m going to rinse off and change.”
Lochlan nodded, his ears buzzing as he tried not to think about the fact that she was about to be naked in the next room.
He clutched the towel and shirt and reminded himself of his plan—to take things slow, to show her that he was worthy of her trust. Memories of what it had felt like to have her in his arms flickered at the edges of his mind, tempting him, testing him.
It took everything he had to keep his thoughts in check.
Lochlan wandered the kitchen, searching for anything—anything—to distract himself with.
He forced his attention onto the little details of the space, hoping to latch onto something, some glimpse of her.
But there was nothing. The apartment felt functional but bare, almost like a dormitory or hotel room: a place to eat and sleep.
It didn’t feel like Nia.
The sound of running water from the bathroom made his pulse quicken.
He clenched his jaw, dragged himself back to the task at hand and began stripping off his soiled shirt and wiping the sticky batter off his pants.
Before he’d finished, Nia reappeared in the bathroom doorway, her damp hair clinging to her shoulders.
She froze mid-step, her eyes widening slightly as she took in his still-shirtless body.
“Shit,” he muttered, yanking the borrowed shirt over his head.
It was ridiculously small; the hem barely grazed his belly button, and the sleeves strained against his arms. Across his chest, a large pink flag with bold SC lettering stretched wide.
Stella College’s logo warped with every breath he took.
Nia let out a disarming laugh. She stepped closer, her eyes bright as she grabbed the discarded towel. “You still have batter on you,” she murmured, holding the cloth up in silent question.
Lochlan nodded, jaw tight, the words catching somewhere between his chest and tongue.
She reached up, dabbing gently at his cheek, wiping away stray streaks. Her touch was light, hesitant, but it undid him all the same. He leaned into her hand without meaning to, instinct chasing the warmth of her palm.
Flashes of a bonfire and the memory of his hands gripping her skin surged through his mind—dangerous and all-consuming. He shoved them down with a slow, forceful breath, focusing instead on the curve of her lips, the scattering of freckles across her nose, the way her damp lashes framed her eyes.
“I’m sorry about the mess back there.” Nia reached up to wipe his hair. Her voice was quiet enough to make him lean in without thinking.
The motion brought her chest against his, and Lochlan’s grip on the counter tightened, his fingers digging into the wood. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to close the space between them, but he forced himself to stay still, the tension winding tighter with every passing second.
He cleared his throat, his voice rough as he said, “Are all your fundraisers like that?”
Nia kept running the towel over his skin, even though he was sure there couldn’t be any batter left. When her hand swept over his lower stomach, he sucked in sharply, heat pooling low in his abdomen.
“One time,” she began, her voice light, “Ivy convinced the local fire fighters to pose with kittens for a calendar shoot. We set it all up in the middle of the street—fires, hoses, oil. The works.” Her lips curved into a smile, and Lochlan felt himself mirroring it.
“Small groups of people stopped to watch, of course—how could they not?” she continued, glancing up at him, a faint flush still lingering on her cheeks.
He nodded, forcing himself to focus on her words instead of the way their toes touched, or how the subtle brush of her fingers against his skin was making it very, very hard to think.
“Well,” she said, her tone turning conspiratorial, “Beatrice—she lives across the street—decided to bring her famous lemonade and flirt with a couple of the fire fighters. Her husband, Hank, wasn’t having it. He thought grabbing one of the hoses and breaking them up was the best plan.”
Lochlan raised a brow. “How did that go?”
Nia shook her head and laughed. “Hank’s about seventy and smaller than Ivy.
When he turned the hose on, the pressure sent it flying, and he held on for dear life.
It was like… I don’t know, some kind of hose rodeo.
Beatrice got completely soaked, one of the businesses had water damage, and now—” Her grin widened.
“—we’re banned from hosting shirtless photo shoots in the square. ”
He wished he could have been there to see it himself. He was realizing how much of life in Stella Rune he’d been missing out on. From now on, he wanted to be there—for all of it.
And for her.
“Lochlan?” Nia’s voice was soft but threaded with urgency as she leaned against him, her warm hands resting lightly on his chest.
His breath hitched as he met her gaze. Dark, liquid eyes and parted lips beckoned him closer. Oh, goddess. He told himself he needed to hold back. He needed to be patient.
He needed to kiss her.
Lochlan leaned in slowly, her breath a soft caress against his lips. His hand rose to brush against her cheek and—
A crash shattered the moment.
Lochlan jumped and spun on instinct, his arm moving to pull Nia behind him, bracing for the threat. A thief? A demon? A—
Cat.
A massive white Maine Coon sat amidst shards of glass, lazily licking its paw as if it hadn’t just barreled through the window. The feline’s gold collar glinted in the light, a delicate scroll dangling from it.
Nia let out a slow breath and stepped around Lochlan to crouch beside the oversized menace. She stroked its head with affection. The cat leaned into her touch, utterly unbothered.
She plucked the scroll from its collar, saw the handwriting, and sighed. “Ass hat,” she muttered, sounding irritated and exasperated. The warmth and tension that had been building between them bled away, until it felt like it had never existed.
The cat stretched, turned in an elegant circle, and sauntered off. As it slipped out of sight, the shattered window began to reassemble. Shards rose and slotted back into place with quiet, effortless magic.
Nia handed him the scroll, her expression unreadable. “It’s Wulfric,” she said flatly. “He’s summoned us for dinner tomorrow.”