Chapter 11
ELEVEN
NAOMI
S hit. I spit bile, my stomach clenching.
What is so hard about ‘don’t follow me into bathrooms’?
“Go away.”
“Open the door.”
“Fuck off.” Another heave.
“I’ll kick it down.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” He would. He absolutely would.
“Try me.”
“Just…” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and flush the toilet. The water swirls, taking evidence of my shame with it. “Give me a minute.”
“You’ve had ten.”
Has it been that long? The faucet runs full blast. I rinse my mouth and splash water on my face. My reflection stares back, mascara smeared, lipstick gone, eyes hollow.
“Go away.” I meant it to sound harsh, but it comes out more like a plea. “Please.” Pathetic.
“Not happening.” His voice is closer, as if he’s pressed right up against the door. “Not until you open up and talk to me.”
“That’s rich, coming from you.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I’m trying to be better.” He sighs, and I can almost feel the weight of it through the door.
“I don’t need your help.”
“Tough shit,” he says, “because you’re getting it anyway.”
I hear him settling on the floor.
He’s not leaving. Is he?
He’s going to sit there and wait me out like some stubborn, infuriating guardian angel.
It makes me want to scream. It also makes me want to open the door and fall into his arms, but I can’t let him see me like this, broken and weak and so fucking pathetic.
So, instead, I sit on my side of the door. “You’re an asshole.”
“I am,” he says, “but I’m your asshole.”
My asshole.
Isn’t that just the kicker? Because as much as I hate to admit it, he’s right. He is mine, in this twisted, fucked-up way that I can’t quite explain. And maybe, just maybe, that means I’m his too.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know it had cinnamon in it.”
“Pretty sure it’s in the name. Cinnam?—”
“I don’t mean today.” A pause. “I meant the ravioli.”
The event. It was the first time he confronted me in the bathroom. Showed me that he knows.
“How long?” I finally ask. “How long have you known?”
“College.”
College? That’s like ages ago. My fingers clench against the cold tile floor. I was always so careful. Meticulous, even. I thought no one knew. Except for Blake, no one could know. Always had an excuse ready. Always timed it perfectly.
But of course, Brandon fucking Milton would be the one to figure it out.
The word scrapes my raw throat. “How?”
“You really want to know?”
No. “Yes.” Maybe.
He shifts against the door. “Remember that Christmas party at Sigma Chi? The one with the cinnamon liquor shots?”
I do. But what I remember most isn’t the party, it’s what happened earlier that day. Anne had shown me an old photo of her mother, Clara, smiling at the camera. The same smile I see on Anne’s face sometimes. The same smile that died in our garage that night. And then it had to be Christmas. And what do you serve on Christmas? Fucking cinnamon li?—
“You disappeared for like an hour,” he continues. “At first, I thought maybe you just couldn’t hold your liquor. Or maybe you had a thing against cinnamon.”
Can’t I disappear, melt into the wood, and cease to exist?
“But the thing was. You didn’t have one sip.” His words come softer, heavier, sinking into my skin. “Started noticing other things. You always picked at your food, moving it around your plate instead of eating. You bought tons of snacks, but I never saw you eat them. You’d check your phone exactly forty-five minutes into every dinner. You’d disappear during or after meals and come back with mints on your breath. And later, the only thing you ate?—”
“You don’t know anything.” I feel tears prickling behind my eyelids.
“I know enough.” His voice is softer, almost gentle. “I’ve known you long enough.”
“You’re more observant than you look.”
“And you’re not as subtle as you think, cupcake.”
I want to throw something at him through the door. “Don’t call me that right now.”
“Why? Because it makes you think about food?”
“Fuck you.”
“Again. I offered you long ago, but you?—”
“Why did you never say anything?”
“Because I wanted you to tell me yourself. When you felt ready…”
Silence stretches between us, thick with things we’re not saying. Things I can’t say.
I remember exactly the first time I met Brandon Milton. God, I was a mess that night.
Blake had dragged me to this frat party because Sebastian was going to be there. I was wearing this tight-ass dress Mom had convinced me to buy, trying not to breathe too deep lest I bust a seam. Trying to hold everything together.
Then someone put on this Christmas playlist, in fucking October, and ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ started playing. Clara used to hum that while baking cinnamon cookies. The memory hit me like a truck, and suddenly, I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stand the press of sweaty bodies.
I needed food. Needed to feel something other than this hollow ache. Needed to fill the emptiness with something I could control, then purge it all away.
I stumbled to the kitchen, desperate for anything I could find in this testosterone-fueled hellhole—chips, dip, leftover pizza—anything to stuff down my throat.
And there was Brandon, all tousled hair and devil-may-care grin, looking like he’d just rolled out of bed wearing a ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing forearms corded with muscle, and flour dusting his skin. The apron was tied low on his hips, and even through my panic, I noticed how it pulled across his broad shoulders with each movement. He was flipping pancakes at 11 PM, humming to himself, completely out of place in this frat house kitchen yet somehow belonging there more than anyone else.
The fluorescent kitchen light caught the angles of his face—sharp jawline, full lips curved in concentration, and eyes so blue they seemed almost unreal.
Later, I’d learn how those eyes could cut right through my bullshit, but right then, they were focused entirely on the task at hand, watching golden batter bubble and brown.
“You look like you could use some pancakes,” he said, not even looking up from the pan.
I wanted to tell him to fuck off. I wanted to run. Instead, I sat at the counter and watched him flip perfect circles.
“What kind of weirdo makes pancakes at a frat party?” I asked, my voice steadier than I felt.
“The kind who loves cooking.” He slid a plate toward me. “Try it.”
I stared at the pancake, my throat tightening. Eat in front of a stranger? Let him watch me put food in my mouth? The thought made my skin crawl.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Didn’t ask if you were hungry.” He flipped another pancake with a practiced flick of his wrist. “Asked if you wanted to try it.”
There was something hypnotic about watching him cook. The easy confidence in his movements, the way his strong capable hands knew exactly what to do without hesitation. No second-guessing, no anxiety—just flow.
My racing thoughts began to quiet.
It was… nice.
Stirring, pouring, flipping—the rhythmic motion strangely soothing.
He didn’t ask questions. Just slid one pancake after another on my plate before sitting down with his own stack.
“Breakfast for dinner,” he said. “Or breakfast for midnight snack. Whatever.”
The pancakes were… perfect. Fluffy, buttery, with just a hint of vanilla.
“Better than whatever processed shit they’re serving in the cafeteria if you ask me,” he said.
For the first time in forever, I ate without planning my escape route to the bathroom, without feeling the need to binge and purge.
A week later, I ran into him at the campus coffee shop. He sauntered over, all cocky confidence and bedroom eyes. “Well, hello there, cupcake.”
I gave him my best unimpressed look. “Cupcake? Really?”
“Would you prefer muffin?” He grinned wider. “Tart? éclair? Pancake?”
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t quite stop the corner of my mouth from twitching. “How about you just call me Naomi?”
“Naomi.” He rolled my name on his tongue like he was tasting it. “I think I’ll stick with cupcake.”
I wanted to be annoyed, but there was just something about him. The way he looked at me like I was someone worthy. It was unnerving. Thrilling. Terrifying.
Comfortable.
Safe.
I only had that with Blake.
Brandon made me laugh, really laugh, for the first time in… I couldn’t even remember.
“You followed me around like a dog,” I say.
I can practically hear his smirk through the door. “Like you didn’t love every second of it.”
“You were annoying as fuck.”
“And yet, here we are. Still stuck with each other.”
I close my eyes, letting my head thunk back against the door.
“Woof.”
A laugh bubbles up my throat. “Seriously?”
“Come on, cupcake. Open the door.”
My fingers trace the cool metal of the doorknob. “Why?”
“Because sitting on this floor is killing my ass.”
Turning that knob feels like the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Harder than any exam, any interview, any social event I’ve ever forced myself through.
“Poor baby.” I turn the lock, my hand trembling slightly. “Heaven forbid you wrinkle your precious designer pants.”
The door creaks open, and Brandon steps inside, closing it behind him. His tie is loose, hair messed up like he’s been running his hands through it the whole time.
He looks down at me where I’m still sitting on the floor, those blue eyes too sharp, too knowing. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I whisper back.
“You look like shit.”
“Fuck you very much.”
“Already offered.” He slides down next to me against the wall. “Multiple times.”
“And I already told you where to stick those offers.”
“Kinky.” He grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You know, most girls would kill for what I’m offering.”
“Guess I’m not most girls.”
“You’re definitely not.”
I drop my head to his shoulder. Safe… “What if I said yes?”
His head snaps to me. “What?”
I lift my own from his shoulder, meeting his beautiful eyes. “You heard me.”
“Say it again.”
I lick my lips, his eyes following the movement. “What if I said yes, Brandon?”
“Yes, to what, exactly?”
Do I really have to spell it out for him? “Yes, to your offer, dumbass. What else would I be talking about?”
“I’ve made a lot of offers over the years.”
“Fuck you.”
His eyes darken, pupils dilating. “Are you sure?”
“No.” I force down a swallow. “But when am I ever sure about anything?”
Brandon turns to face me fully. His knee brushes against mine, sending sparks through my body. “This isn’t like picking what to eat for dinner, cupcake.”
“Trust me, I know. That’s actually harder.”
“Don’t.” His jaw tightens. “Don’t make jokes about it.”
“It’s my fucked-up life. I’ll joke about it if I want to.”
“If you saw someone feeling like the way you’re feeling right now, what would you tell that person?” His fingers find my chin, tilting my face up. “Would you tell them they deserve this? That it’s okay to hurt themselves? To make self-depreciating jokes?”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Because…” Because I deserve it. Because I’m not worth saving. Because the guilt eats me alive.
“Because nothing.” His voice softens. “You’re deflecting.”
“And you’re stalling.” I meet his gaze, challenging. “What’s wrong, Milton? Performance anxiety?”
“I want you.” His voice drops low, rough. “I want you so fucking much. You know that. But not like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re using me to punish yourself.”
The words hit like a slap.
“Am I wrong?”
I jerk back, but his grip is firm. Not painful, just… present. Like him. Always fucking present when I least want him to be.
“Let go,” I say.
“Answer the question.”
“What do you want me to say?” The words tear from my throat. “That you’re right? That maybe I do want to feel something, anything, other than this constant guilt? That maybe I’m tired of being perfect little Naomi who never steps out of line?”
His thumb traces circles on my wrist, right over my pulse. “And that’s what I am? Your rebellion?”
“You’re worse.”
“How’s that?”
You make me want things I can’t have. “Do you want to or not? If not, I’ll find someone who will.”
His fingers dig into my skin, making my pulse jump. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what? Don’t go find someone who actually wants me?”
“Fuck.” He leans in, his breath hot against my ear. “I just said that I want you. I want to bend you over, spank that cute ass, and fuck you until you scream my name, and there’s no mistaking who you belong to.”
Heat pools low in my belly. “Then why don’t you?”
“I told you, not like this.” His other hand comes up, brushing a strand of hair from my face with a tenderness that makes my chest ache. “When I fuck you, and trust me cupcake, it’s a when, not an if, it’s not going to be some quick, dirty bathroom hookup.”
My mouth is suddenly dry. “No?”
“No.” The pad of his thumb skims my lower lip, and my pulse stutters as I fight the need to flick my tongue over it to taste him. “When I fuck you, it’s going to be in a bed. With silk sheets and candlelight and all that romantic shit you pretend not to care about.”
As if. “You think you know me so well.”
“I do.”
“Please.”
He turns his head, his lips hovering inches from mine, and my heart goes crazy against my ribs like it’s trying to force me forward and close the distance.
Wait!
I press my palm against his chest. “No kissing.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” My fingers curl into his shirt. I haven’t had any mint yet, and I need to brush my teeth. “No kissing.”
“Funny rule for someone who was just begging me to fuck her.”
“I don’t beg.”
A devilish smile spreads on his lips.
I turn my face away. “I mean it. No kissing.”
“Why?” His fingers trail down my neck. “Afraid you might like it too much?”
What if I do? It’s a line I can’t uncross. “No.”
“Liar.” His lips skim my ear, light as a whisper. “You’re scared shitless, aren’t you, cupcake?”
I shove at his chest. “Don’t psychoanalyze me.”
“Then don’t lie to me.” His hand roams my thigh. “Tell me the real reason.”
“Because—” My breath catches as his fingers slip under my dress. “Because kissing makes it real.”
“And this isn’t real?” His touch burns on my skin. “What we’re doing right now?”
“This is just… this is nothing.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
“Fuck you.”
“We’ve established that’s the plan.” His fingers trace patterns. “Just no kissing.”
“Yes.”
“Your rules are fucked up, you know that?”
I meet his gaze. “Take it or leave it.”
His eyes search mine, looking for something I’m terrified he’ll find. “What if I want more?”
“Then you’re in the wrong bathroom with the wrong girl.”
Brandon stands up, the movement so sudden it makes me flinch.
“What are you doing?” I ask, hating how uncertain my voice sounds.
“Get on there.” He points to the counter. “Spread your legs.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” His voice is low, dangerous. “On the counter. Now.”
I blink up at him. This isn’t the playful, teasing Brandon I’m used to. This is… something else entirely. “What happened to the bed and silk sheets?”
“Now, Naomi.”
Heat rushes to my core, because this Brandon, this take-no-prisoners version, is hot as fuck.
I push myself up on shaky legs. “And if I don’t?”
“Then I walk out that door, and we never speak of this again. Your choice.”