Chapter Fifteen
Let’s Get It Out of Our System—when the protagonists in a romance novel agree to keep having sex until their desire burns itself out.
When I wake up the next morning, I realize everything that happened the night before.
I am stunned. Completely motionless, lying naked in my bed.
I had sex with Nathan Hart.
I’ve spent years carving out a life for myself, a life that’s just about me. Now suddenly there’s this man.
Like he hasn’t been a factor for years.
Right. Well. A fantasy object, yes, but nothing real.
I get up and wrap myself in one of the pink cotton robes that hang from a peg on the wall, and then I make my way over to the coffee maker and choose the brightest, pinkest mug I have to start my day. These things are normal, and I find I’m in desperate need of normal at the moment.
I pick up a coffee pod and pop it into the machine, and I’m stopped midmotion by a knock on the door.
I freeze.
Nobody knocks on my door. I don’t advertise my room number to guests. They can call me at the number I provide, and I can be paged from the front desk.
My long-term inhabitants, of course, know where my room is, but I know who this is.
I know it immediately.
I go to the door, flexing my hands, trying to act like a normal human, trying to collect myself, trying to decide whether I think there is any hidden meaning to the fact he’s here.
I scrunch my face and open the door.
Thank God it’s him and not some rando, because I’m only wearing a robe.
He shaved. He’s in fresh clothes. He looks new and glorious, and not like the last vestiges of the night are still clinging to his skin. I happen to know, without checking a mirror, that I look a wreck.
“Good morning,” he says.
“Morning,” I respond, moving away from the door, making it clear he’s allowed inside.
He takes the hint and comes in.
I feel defenseless. In my robe, completely naked beneath. He’s wearing armor, and not the kind he often does. He is enshrouded in taciturn distance. Rather, he looks like a normal—albeit an extraordinarily handsome—man I might meet anywhere. A man who could have done anything last night. A man who probably didn’t have world-destroying sex.
I say nothing because he’s the one who came here.
He’s the one who has a plan.
If I say something, there’s no telling what it will be. I feel I would have no control over the words that might tumble out of my mouth. I don’t trust myself.
“I’m sorry about last night,” he says.
I lift a brow. “About the sex or the abandonment?”
“The abandonment. I’m not sorry about the sex, even if I should be.”
“Good. Because I’m definitely not sorry about the sex.”
I haven’t decided if I’m sorry about him leaving. I could cope with it at the time. I recognized the need for a little bit of distance then.
Right now, though, I feel a little bit raw about it.
“Is that diner in town any good?” he asks.
If he’s using me as a brochure, I’ll punch him. Especially since he’s never shown any interest in my brochures before.
“Get Your Kicks?” I ask. “Yes. Though even if it weren’t, it’s the only diner.”
“Do you want to have breakfast with me?”
I’m surprised by the overture, especially after the way he left last night. Hell, he has a pattern. Get close, pull away. Often aggressively, so this is ... a pleasant-ish surprise.
“We don’t need to go out.”
He looks around the room, and his voice pitches lower. “We do.”
I blink, and my stomach pitches sharply. “Oh. Oh. I need to get dressed,” I say.
“I’ll wait outside.”
He’s trying to avoid sexual situations. He’s trying to put distance between us without being an asshole. I don’t really want him to do that.
Something bold overtakes me then; I’m not sure what it is. I’m not sure if it’s bravery or insanity. I’m not really sure I care. I put my hands on the belt of the robe and undo it. “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”
I turn away from him, my heart pounding. I’m wondering who this woman is. I guess she’s the woman who threw caution to the wind last night and kissed this man, took him to her room, even knowing it was going to be sex and sex only. Even knowing that I struggle with it.
This wasn’t like anything else I can compare it to.
Not to the previous one-night stand I attempted to have, or to any past relationship. Not just because it was fantastic. Because I feel so different.
I drop the robe, and I feel his gaze burning into me as I make my way over to the closet and pull out a dress. I retrieve some underwear and a bra from the stacked drawers I have in the closet, and I retreat into the bathroom to put them on, because my boldness has reached its end.
When I emerge a few moments later, I’m dressed, with my hair arrayed into a more decent shape, a small amount of makeup on my face.
“Breakfast it is,” I say.
“Really, that’s what you’re going to play now? Like you didn’t just take your clothes off in front of me?”
“It wasn’t a lot of clothes,” I say. “I didn’t know you were a prude, Nathan. Many places in the desert are clothing optional.”
He moves toward me, intent in his green eyes, and lowers his head like he’s about to kiss me, but then he stops. Maybe he’s waiting for my permission. I decide not to give it to him. To see what will happen.
He moves away from me and then steps to the door. “I can drive us,” he says.
I feel a little giddy rush because I’ve never ridden in his car, obviously. Even though I’ve seen it. A hunter-green classic car with a rounded shape that reminds me of a British spy movie.
It is deeply him, somehow. Not just because it matches his eyes.
I follow him out to the parking lot, and I get into the passenger side, brushing my hand over the cognac-colored leather as he makes his way around to the driver seat.
“Why breakfast?” I ask as he buckles his seat belt and pulls us out of the parking lot.
“Because I thought we should talk, not fuck,” he says.
I didn’t think real men talked this way. I just thought I wrote them saying hot, dirty things like that, but he’s killing me.
“Fucking sounds like more fun,” I say.
Why not be this person? Why not be brave and say exactly what I want?
Or at least, all the things I know I want.
“Agreed,” he says. “But I think if it’s going to happen again, there need to be some ground rules.”
“Ground rules?” I ask, looking in his direction. He isn’t looking at me, though, because he’s driving. “That sounds more like a military school than a fling.”
I’m the one who introduces the word first. Fling.
I’m the one who tries to name it. I’m not sure it fits. But it seems like the right label. Light, but not contained to one night. Something that’s easy.
I’ve never had one of those before. Just a college boyfriend, a one-night stand who left me unsatisfied and sad, and a relationship that scooped me out like a melon and left me hollow and alone.
Maybe it’s time for something I haven’t done before. It seems like a step in my development, maybe.
“Games aren’t fun if you don’t know the rules,” he says, but his voice is not light.
“Oh. Well.”
“It’s best to be clear, I think.”
“Well, you’ll have to forgive me—I don’t know the protocol for ... flings. It’s a fling, right?”
“I think that’s the discussion that needs to be had,” he says.
I wrinkle my nose and rest my elbow against the window as we make our way into town. The diner is painted a bright aqua color, with a large neon sign that stands proudly beside it, pink and yellow and retro. Get Your Kicks!
“It’s a tourist attraction,” I say as we pull into the parking lot.
“Oh good. I was hoping to get some tourist action in.”
I laugh. “You aren’t. Which is one of the very strange things about you. You’re here, but you’re not a tourist.”
“No,” he says.
I feel those walls starting to go up again. Ridiculous, actually, because we had sex, and he’s still acting like these basic comments are intrusive.
But I have to remember that he’s the one who showed up at my door this morning. He’s the one who felt like he needed to make the connection. He’s the one who ...
I just need to relax and let him take the lead here. I’m not good at that. I want to control things. I recognize that.
It’s one reason I left the place I lived when I went through my dramatic breakup. When I decided I needed to heal. I needed to be in absolute and total control of all the things around me. I couldn’t help it. It’s who I am. So, I need to let him be the one to make the move here. I need to let him be the one to take charge. Because he’s the one who knows what he’s thinking; I don’t. I don’t want to change whatever he intends.
I want to let it play out. That, I think, might be growth. Or at least something like it.
We walk into the diner and are greeted by the waitress I don’t know, which is sort of a relief because it will minimize speculation. We get seated at a small, shiny table for two nestled in the corner and are handed menus the size of small novels.
“I personally like the omelets,” I say. “But the pancakes are also great if you like a sweet breakfast.”
“I don’t. I’ll do an egg-white omelet, if they have it.”
“They can do that,” I say. “They just might laugh at you.”
“Me and my cholesterol are okay with that,” he says.
He doesn’t look like he could possibly have cholesterol problems, but I’m not a doctor. I have, however, examined every square inch of his body.
Still, it is something of a relief to know he doesn’t look that way on accident.
Based on the frozen meals he was buying, I wouldn’t have necessarily guessed he was health conscious.
The waitress swings by our table again. She has two mugs and a pot of coffee in her hands.
“Coffee?” she asks.
We both say yes.
“Do you know what you want to order?” she asks.
“Veggie omelet,” he says. “Egg whites.”
She looks at me with a hint of judgment in her eyes, and I feel validated by this.
“The farmer’s omelet,” I say. “The whole egg. Extra cheese.”
She takes our menus and leaves.
He looks at me, and I look back.
“Here’s the thing,” he says, as if he can’t hold it in anymore. “I’m leaving after Christmas. I’m not coming back.”
I’m shocked. After three summers, I was starting to think he’d always be my summer.
“You ... You’re not coming back this summer.”
“No,” he says. “I don’t need to. I ... This is the last time I’m coming. So anything after December ... It’s impossible.”
“Right,” I say.
Then I just wonder, because I have to, if this is why it finally happened at all. He knew he wasn’t coming back. He knew he wouldn’t have to deal with me again after this. Maybe I have no right to be mad about that. The truth is, we’re a loose end. I definitely felt it. Like he was the summit I needed to climb. Really, in more ways than one. So maybe it’s fair. It’s okay that ... the desire to finish with me was the inciting incident. It’s okay that it was the reason. The final ingredient that created this alchemy.
“I’m more than willing to play the part of doting boyfriend to piss off Fucking Fuck, because it sounds to me like that guy deserves to die mad.”
He does. Nathan really has no idea.
“I don’t know that he’s going to care that I’m dating someone three years later, when he’s engaged to be married, but I just don’t want him thinking that I’m angling to get him back. Because I’m not. I don’t care if he’s jealous or if he even really makes note of it, honestly, I just don’t want it to look like I creepily orchestrated some weird small-town fantasy. Can you imagine? This man, the king of Christmas movies, shows up to my small town, and there I am, in my little Christmas tree grove, like I plan on trapping him in Hallmark Hell. No thank you.”
“Okay, that’s fair. I get where you’re coming from.”
“What I want is to keep my pride, and this will help me do that. While you help raise money for the town. Is it petty of me to want to have you raise more money for the fund than he does?”
He shakes his head. “Well. Yes. But there’s really nothing wrong with being petty, especially if you’re raising money for the town either way.”
“Right!” I say. “That’s also what I thought.”
I want to ask him why he’s not coming back. It must have something to do with whatever he needed to write here. Which he clearly doesn’t want to go into.
I tap my finger against the ketchup bottle.
“So ... somewhere in all this,” I say, “we’ll continue to have sex.”
He looks at me across the table, and right then, the waitress returns and sets two plates down in front of us. He looks up at her, then back at me.
“Thank you,” I say.
I continue to stare at him as the waitress walks away.
“Yeah,” he says. “That was the subtext.”
“Let’s not do subtext,” I say. “I feel like subtext is for long-term relationships and not for sex between relative strangers. Clarity. That would be good.”
I can respect his boundaries. The ones he throws up every time I get too close. But I need him to be up-front. This isn’t a book, and I can’t read his thoughts. I wish I could. I wish I could get a nice monologue about what exactly he’s thinking.
I can’t even imagine what I’d write for him right now. Mostly because I’m afraid it would hurt my feelings.
She was looking at him with hope, the kind that made him pity her like she was a small, tragic creature. The sex had been fine, but he was longing to escape ...
Yeah, no, she wasn’t going to continue on with that.
“Yeah,” he says. “I can do clear.”
“Can you?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “I can.”
“Great. So this is like a holiday fling.”
“Yes. Big fan of flings.”
For some reason the way he says that is hilarious to me. Mainly because I can tell ... This man has never done a casual thing in his life. I don’t know why I’m so certain of this. I think it’s the intensity. He’s just way too intense for anything light, airy, or flippant.
Except I think he’s maybe trying to do that with me, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.
“So does that mean you’re going to involve yourself in the activities around the motel?”
“Doubtful. I have something to finish. It’s ... kind of personal. I ... I’m actually not trying to be insufferable.”
“It just comes honestly,” I say.
“Yes,” he says. “I am a naturally insufferable asshole. It is like breathing for me.”
I laugh at that too, even though I get the sense there’s more truth to it than humor.
“Will you come to the dive-in movie?”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes, tomorrow.”
I don’t get into the subject of schedules. Like, are we going to have sex every night? Part of me hopes so. Another part of me has no idea what I would do with that much sexual activity after such a long dry spell. I fear it could leave me physically damaged. I also fear I might decide it’s worth it.
That’s just where I’m at, at the moment.
It’s a strange thing. I’m emotionally compromised, but I’m also so physically exhausted that it’s difficult for me to sort through the hierarchy of needs here.
Sex for me has generally been part of a relationship, and even then, the most important component to me has always been maintaining emotional closeness through the physical connection.
This is something else. Something I’ve never experienced before.
He rocked my world. What I really wish is that I could focus solely on that. That I could see him as nothing more than a gorgeous body that has been inside mine and made me feel pleasure like I’ve never known before.
I wish I didn’t care so much about him.
That would be nice. It just isn’t me. I can appreciate that he was kind to set boundaries. To set an intention, even if those intentions leave me feeling slightly wounded.
“I need to get some work done,” he says.
“Yeah, same.” I do my best to lighten my tone. “I kind of run the place where you’re staying. I’m not sure if you know that.”
“Do you have writing to do today?”
“I have a word count to get every day,” I say. “What do you do?”
“I have scenes and I work on them, and when they’re perfect, I move on, but I don’t think of it in terms of word counts or page counts. It comes together that way.”
“Gross, Nathan. That’s so unstructured it offends me.”
“I’m an artist, I guess.”
I laugh. “Ohhh.”
“And you always meet your deadlines?” he asks.
“Deadlines turn me on,” I say.
“What else turns you on?”
My face gets hot. “Your omelet is getting cold.”
I take a bite of my own fiercely.
There is a tone shift, and it’s like he’s a different man. Like he managed to pull himself out of whatever space he’d been in just a few moments before.
His emotions are so intense I can feel them like the changing of the tide. Even if I can’t quite get a handle on what they are.
“Actually,” he says, looking at me, his omelet half-gone now. “Part of what I was going to do today was go to Joshua Tree. Research. And I was wondering if you wanted to go.”
“So you are writing something set here,” I say, rather than answering his invitation.
“Kind of,” he says.
“Why are you so vague?” I pound the table lightly.
“Because I can’t ... I can’t talk about this one.”
I scowl. “Are you afraid you’ll scare your fragile boy muse away, or is it actually a contractual thing?”
“Neither. I just don’t want to talk about this while it’s a work in progress.”
“But you’re involving me.”
“Not really.”
“You invited me.”
“You didn’t accept.”
“Okay, I accept. And I feel involved.”
“Your feelings aren’t facts, Amelia. I don’t know if anyone has ever told you that before.” He says that in a totally teasing way, but honestly, he has no idea how well I know that.
Enough that it dampens a little bit of my enthusiasm.
But he’s asking me to go with him to Joshua Tree, of all places, and I’m more than happy to drop everything to make that happen.
“I just need to do a couple of things at the motel.”
“What about your word count?”
I lift a brow and make direct eye contact with him. “I left my hero sweating, and shaking, with a hard-on. It would be very mean of me not to continue the scene today.”
His eyes change, and he leans forward, a conspiratorial look on his face. “I can relate to him.”
“You’re the one who left me last night.”
“I’m sorry about that,” he says. “I had to ...” He looks away from me, and I can tell he doesn’t want to finish that sentence. “I had to think about some things.”
“Oh.” My response sounds flat. I feel flat. I don’t know what he means by that. I don’t understand why sex with me required great contemplation after, but worse, he doesn’t want to share it with me.
“I don’t know how to explain it,” he says, his voice rough.
That does it. Things click into place for me.
Heartbreak. I get it.
I get it, because it echoes inside me. Not present heartbreak, but the past.
Trying to sort it out and figure out who you are in the present.
It’s way too familiar to me.
I could push for his story.
I already know he’s not coming back, is the thing. I already know that this will end. So what I also know is that now, I want things to be good between us.
I want us to be my new bubble. The bubble Rancho Encanto can’t be because Chris is invading it.
I want to be his bubble.
I get the feeling he doesn’t have one.
He’s letting me in, a little at a time. It works, I assume, because he’s not letting me into a place I need to live. I don’t need to worry about how dark it is once I’m inside.
There’s a time limit on this. The clock is ticking.
But today, we have this.
He’s going to pretend to be my fake boyfriend, I’m going to pretend that everything is great and that looking at Christopher doesn’t hurt me. And we are going to my favorite national park.
All is well.
For the moment.
I’ll take that.