Chapter 6 Hannah
Hannah
Un. Fucking. Believable.
I cracked an egg into the pan, wishing I could climb in beside it and sizzle off my pent-up frustration at my body’s betrayal.
Not only had I had that gorgeous man in my bed—or more accurately, I’d unknowingly climbed into his and sleepily spooned him, and he hadn’t kicked me out—but he’d invited me to stay, confessing that the crush wasn’t one-sided.
And then we kissed.
What started as a simple brush of lips deepened quickly as he slid his tongue against mine.
His hand shifted to frame my hips, pulling them closer, groaning as my legs pressed into his hard dick.
I pushed him onto his back, not wanting even an inch between us as I straddled his hips and leaned forward to kiss him deeper.
I took control, grabbing his hands and sliding them underneath my shirt.
They cupped my breasts, squeezing and teasing as I gasped into his mouth…
Until that gasp morphed into a yawn.
A goddamn yawn.
My traitorous body had yawned into his mouth.
I tried to play it off as a gasp gone wrong, rocking my hips against him in hopes that it would wake me up more…
but his hands released my breasts to lower my tank, smoothing it down.
In the dim light of dawn creeping through the window, he scanned my face, brow furrowed. “You said you worked a double tonight?”
“Yeah, but I’m fine. I’m used to it,” I said, trying to shake off his concern and get back to the kissing. I hadn’t realized until his mouth touched mine just how badly I’d needed to be seen as a person deserving desire… not just a mess to clean up.
But Connor’s eyes lingered on my face, where I knew bags had formed under my eyes. His thumb traced my cheekbone. “How long have you been sleeping on the couch?”
I shrugged. “Couple weeks.”
I didn’t tell him about the crick in my back from the lumpy cushions, or the way Teresa opened the living room windows every morning at six-thirty—she liked getting to the spa early to open up before the morning rush, which meant I got a cheerful “Rise and shine!” whether I’d been asleep for two hours or six.
Not that I blamed her. Her apartment, her schedule, her morning-person habits that I’d probably find endearing if I wasn’t the one being passively-aggressively roused.
Because I’d take that lumpy couch any day over our mother’s judgment couched in concern: “How many jobs did you apply for today, Hannah? You know the longer you have a gap in your resume, the harder it will be to get hired.”
Connor didn’t need to know that sob story, so I added, “But it’s only temporary. Just until I figure out what’s next.”
He nodded gently, his thumb still lingering on my cheek. “That ends now. It’s ridiculous to sleep on the couch when my bed is empty. You sleep here, okay?”
I wanted to protest, but the concern in his eyes shone through so strongly that I found myself nodding. He rolled me off him until we were facing each other, sliding his lower arm under my head. “Now go back to sleep, Goldilocks. You were out cold until I woke you.”
“But I swear, I can—”
“My mom always said that rest is the best medicine,” he said, tucking loose hair behind my ear. “Go to sleep. We can pick back up in the morning, okay, Sleeping Beauty?”
I wanted to complain that he was mixing fairy tales, but the protests fell short when he lifted the blanket up to my chin, surrounding me with his warmth and scent.
My eyelids felt heavy, and as his hand rubbed my side gently, my body relaxed for what felt like the first time in weeks.
I let myself be lulled back to sleep—a gentle transition instead of an exhausted crash, dreaming of kissing him again…
But when I woke up, I was alone in his bed.
I touched his cold pillow and looked around. Was this really Connor’s room, or had I dreamed the whole thing, a hallucination from too many long hours on my feet and too long without sex?
But no, there was his suitcase, and last night’s suit hanging in the closet.
I groaned, flopping my arm over my eyes. Teresa had told me about her new roommate when he moved in last winter—back when I was still in New York, drowning in scandal.
Captain Three-Piece, she’d called him. Best roommate I’ve ever had. You should see his closet—all his suits perfectly pressed. Keeps to himself, a bit closed off… but he cleans the bathroom every week, never lets food go to waste. Honestly, I might never move out.
At the time, I’d looked around Sebastian’s chic SoHo loft—his $3000 espresso machine he’d used twice, that Basquiat print everyone had, his self-important shit everywhere.
He’d asked me to move in but I’d had to fight for a few dresser drawers while his vintage camera collection took up an entire shelf.
A man cleaning the bathroom? I’d thought, Goddamn, that would be nice.
A month later, I'd moved out of that loft and back home, tail between my legs.
And then, after three months of facing our parents' criticism, Teresa had called again. “My roommate just texted and said he had to leave town for work with literally no idea when he’ll be back. Want to come live with me?”
She’d barely finished the question before I was tossing clothes in my duffel bag.
The sound of the shower carried in from the bathroom, so I tiptoed out to the kitchen to start breakfast. But as I cracked eggs into the pan, I wondered how I could possibly face the near-stranger whose bed I’d invaded.
Coffee. This would definitely require coffee.
I had the pot brewing and bacon sizzling when Connor padded into the kitchen in jeans and a San Francisco State t-shirt. His hair was still damp, brushed away from his face but loose. No suit jacket, no tie. Just him.
"Morning," I said as I lifted the coffee pot in offering, trying desperately to act like this was normal. At least if we’d had sex, we could have had the morning afterglow—Yes I’ve seen you naked but at least I gave you an orgasm.
"Morning," he nodded, reaching for my favorite mug at the same time I did, our fingertips brushing against the words: I’m silently correcting your grammar.
Wait, no, not my mug. His mug that he’d left behind.
But he released his grip and I filled it for him. He lifted a brow as he took it. “You know you don’t have to make my drinks here.”
Not wanting to feel called out as just a simple service worker, I pulled the flavored creamer out of the fridge. “So if you live here, I guess that means this abomination is yours? You’re a grown man, and you drink peppermint mocha creamer? In August?”
“Peppermint mocha is a year-round necessity, Hannah,” he said, completely serious. “It was always in the fridge growing up, but there are shortages around the holidays, so I stock up in advance.”
“What, so you hoard it like gold bullion?” I teased, shaking the bottle. “If I’d known you had a sweet tooth, I would’ve skipped the Negroni and made you a White Russian.”
Without missing a beat, Connor deadpanned, “Careful. That creamer really ties the room together.”
I blinked in surprise. “…Did you just quote The Big Lebowski at me?”
He used my surprise to his advantage, swiping the peppermint mocha creamer bottle and pouring with a satisfied smirk. “What? You think I popped out of the womb in a three-piece suit?”
I laughed as he lifted the creamer bottle to his ear, shaking it to weigh it. “Seems less full than I left it.” He narrowed his eyes at me, but there was warmth behind it. “And isn’t Teresa lactose intolerant?”
Guilty.
I turned back to the stovetop to flip the eggs, heat rising to my cheeks. “I didn’t know it was yours.”
He moved to stand beside me at the stove, close enough that I could smell his woodsy body wash and feel the warmth radiating from his shoulder. His hand reached past me to move the bag of bread away from the burner, where the plastic had started to melt.
"You always fix stuff like that?" I asked, flipping the bacon.
Something unreadable flickered behind his eyes. "It's easier than cleaning up a mess I could've prevented."
The words were simple. Soft. But they landed heavy.
I wanted to ask what messes he'd prevented, what messes he'd cleaned up—the kind that happened at corporate cesspools, the kind middle management swept under the rug. But the question felt too close to my own wreckage.
Instead I cracked an egg into the pan, watching it sizzle, and gestured at his shirt with the spatula. "That where you grew up?"
He leaned against the counter beside me, mug cradled in both hands. "Born and raised in Marin County, just across the Golden Gate Bridge. Stayed close for college to save on student loans."
"You're a long way from San Francisco." I poured the scrambled eggs into the second pan, letting the silence stretch like an invitation.
He sipped his coffee slowly, like he was deciding how much to share.
"I worked as a paralegal at a law firm there.
That's where I started working for Victoria.
When some shit went down last winter, we all started looking for other work.
" He paused, watching me stir the eggs. "Alex Clarke—one of the senior associates who grew up here in Saratoga—decided to move home.
Invited us to come with him and start a law firm. "
"And you just... left?" I slid the spatula under the bacon, flipping each piece with more focus than necessary. "Left your whole life?"
He tilted his head, his eyes softening. "I needed a fresh start."
The bacon popped and hissed. I wanted to ask what he was running from, whether it was something he'd done or something done to him. Whether a fresh start ever really worked, or if you just carried all your shit to a new zip code.
"What did you—"
"Oh my god, do I smell bacon?" Teresa's voice boomed from the hallway.