Chapter 2 #2
A rumble of laughter. “Fine, but you have to play too. Mine are light brown, and you owe me two answers.”
I giggle. “Yes, sir.” I make a mock salute he can’t see.
He hums, the sound low, approving. “Careful,” he says quietly. “I might like it when you call me that.”
The comment is so unexpected, half-joke, half-challenge, that heat blooms up my neck. I like it, how commanding he sounded for a second there.
“Go on,” Nick prompts, voice softer now, patient.
I swallow, trying to steady the pulse in my throat. “I have brown hair, blue eyes. Got both from my mom.”
“Tell her thank you,” he says, and the words curl through the air, deep and deliberate. “Because I love blue eyes.”
Is he flirting with me?
I think he’s flirting with me.
My fingers find the loose strand of hair that’s fallen against my cheek, twining it nervously.
His silence lingers just long enough for my pulse to start misbehaving.
He laughs under his breath, rougher this time. “This is a dangerous conversation.”
“Why?”
“Because now I can’t stop picturing it. You.”
The green light flickers with every word, and I realize my thumb is tracing slow circles along the edge of the walkie-talkie, matching the rhythm of his voice.
“You should probably stop doing that,” I whisper.
“I know,” he says, and there’s a smile in his tone, steady, certain. “But I don’t think I will.”
“Oh.” It’s all I can manage. My pulse tumbles in my chest; the air feels thin. For a moment, it’s like I’m balancing on the edge of something sharp. A blade. One wrong move and I’ll cut myself worse than I did on the broken wine glass.
“I could, uh, come help you with the bike,” he says, hesitantly, like he already knows it’s a bad idea even as he says it.
The words hit like a spark.
I want to say yes. I want to see if his voice matches his face. But want is dangerous.
My stomach twists. Panic and need tangle together until I can’t tell them apart. I thought after my ex I wouldn’t desire another man, at least not for a long, long time. But this stranger, this voice in the dark, is quietly, terrifyingly, proving me wrong.
The words hang there, echoing. My breath catches. Help me with the bike. That’s all he said, but it doesn’t sound like that. It sounds like the beginning of something I’m not ready for.
Suddenly, the room feels too small, too warm. My pulse rushes in my ears. I picture the door opening, a man I’ve never met standing in the doorway, seeing the mess, the empty wine glass, me in my old sweatshirt and Christmas socks, and the thought terrifies me down to the bone.
The air rushes out of me. My legs move before my mind catches up. “I—uh, don’t think so,” I stammer, pushing up from the couch so fast the wine spills from my glass over my hand and onto the cushions. One more thing I need to clean up. “I mean, that’s okay. I’ve got it.”
“Hey, it’s fine,” Nick says quickly. “I didn’t mean to—”
“I just—” My throat tightens. “I should probably get back to the bike. I promised my son I’d have it ready by morning.”
“Yeah. Of course.” His voice softens, careful now. “Vixen, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have crossed that line. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t,” I blurt out, too fast, too loud. Then, quieter, “You didn’t. I just…”
Static fills the silence between us.
“I gotta go,” I whisper, pressing the talk button with shaking fingers.
The green light fades to red.
The house goes quiet again, but this time it feels much lonelier. Even though I’m the one who ended it, I wish I could still hear his voice echoing in the silence.
I rub at my chest, my shoulders. Everything feels too tight, too tense. I’ve freaked myself out. A glance at Braxton’s room, where the door is still closed. I creep over and press my ear to it. The faint sound of his snores reassures me that he’s sound asleep. Perfect.
I pull back slowly, exhaling shakily. My whole body feels wound up, humming. The truth is, there are parts of me I’ve never let anyone touch, parts I barely let myself acknowledge. And right now, every one of them is awake. I need to calm down, to relax, and I know exactly how I’m going to do that.
Nick
Goddamnit.
I fling the walkie-talkie onto the couch beside me, lean forward, and drag my hands down my face. I fucked up. Pushed her too hard. Too fast.
For a second, I sit there, elbows on my knees, breathing fast like I’ve run a mile. The living room glows from the Christmas tree, but it feels cold now, empty.
I glance at the walkie-talkie again. The little red light blinks back at me, steady and indifferent. She’s not coming back on.
“Smooth move, genius,” I mutter. “Real subtle.”
I lean back and stare at the ceiling. I can still hear her voice, soft, warm, with that little laugh she couldn’t hold back when she teased me. Me too, she said when I told her I was glad about the walkie-talkies and, God, the way she said that. Like she meant it.
Then I ruined it.
“I could come help you with the bike.”
It hadn’t sounded bad in my head. It had sounded normal. Helpful. But the moment the words left my mouth, I’d heard what she must’ve heard…an invitation that wasn’t about the bike at all.
I scrub a hand through my hair and let out a shaky laugh. “Real classy, Nick. Flirt with the lonely single mom over a toy radio.”
It wasn’t just flirting, though. Not really. There was something in her voice, loneliness sure, but also strength. Something that drew me in before I could think better of it.
I pick up the walkie-talkie again, thumb hovering over the button. I could just check in. Say sorry. Tell her I meant it like a neighborly offer.
I don’t. Because that’s not why I want to call.
The truth is, I want to know if it’s her.
Amber.
The woman I’ve been staring at from a distance for months.
The thought makes my stomach twist. What if it isn’t? What if I’m projecting, creating some fantasy to fill the quiet? But what if it is her? What if the woman I’ve been nodding good morning to from across the street just talked to me like she trusted me?
I push off the couch and start pacing. The hardwood planks creak under my feet. The walkie-talkie stays quiet in my hand.
“This is insane,” I mutter. “You’re not gonna go over there at—” I check the clock and add, “midnight, Nick. That’s how you end up on a Neighborhood Watch list.”
My body doesn’t want to listen. I keep picturing her. Blue eyes, soft voice, that nervous laugh when she said something vulnerable, like she worried I’d berate her for it, or, even worse, be indifferent.
The house is too quiet. Every second drags, heavy with things I didn’t say.
Finally, I grab my jacket from the hook and pull it on. “Just to see,” I tell myself. “Just to make sure she’s okay.”
It’s a lie, but a convincing one.
Outside, the air bites with cold. The street is still, the snow on the lawns silver under the porch lights. I start walking, slowly at first, heart pounding like a drum in my chest.
Three houses down.
Her windows glow soft and gold, just like mine. I can see the edge of a Christmas tree through the sheer curtains.
The crunch of my boots is loud in the quiet night. I stop at the end of her walkway and stand there, my breath fogging the air, staring at the house. I look down to find the walkie-talkie is still in my hand. I shove it into the pocket of my jacket and creep forward.
Just a peek. Just to make sure she’s okay.
That’s what I tell myself.
Instead of going to her front door, I head to the side of the house.
The first window I look in shows the living room.
Christmas tree in the corner. Empty wine glass on the coffee table.
Bike parts spilled across the floor. I stare at the mess, at the ordinary signs of her evening, and the truth hits like a punch to the chest. Here’s the proof I was looking for.
It’s her.
Amber.
Relief sweeps through me, fierce and stupidly bright. I was right. I found her.
The room is full, but it’s missing Amber. She’s not here. With an urge to see her driving me forward, I continue down along the side of the house. The snow muffles each step. The next window is high up and has frosted glass. A bathroom, probably.
I’m almost at the back of the house now. I reach the next set of windows and look into a bedroom. What I see drops my jaw. It roots me to the spot.
It’s Amber, but like I’ve never seen her before.
She’s lying on her back in her bed, with her eyes shut and lips parted.
As I watch, her back arches and her body undulates.
Her hands are busy, holding a small pink cylinder that she presses between her legs, moving it back and forth.
The window is close to the foot of her bed, so I can plainly see that she’s not wearing pants or underwear.
The realization comes to me in two parts.
One. The pink thing is a vibrator.
Two. She’s…oh, God.
My pulse stumbles, then it slams in my throat.
I should walk away, I need to walk away, but I don’t.
It’s like I’ve stepped into a dream I have no right to touch.
It’s not even how erotic the moment is that keeps me there.
It’s her beauty. Amber in real life is pretty.
Amber aroused is gorgeous. Stunning. A vision of everything I’ve ever wanted but never thought I could have.
A surge of lust sweeps over me, but under that is an even greater sense of longing.
I want to make her look like that.
I want to be in that room with her.
I want to know, truly know, this unfiltered version of her, so unguarded, so luminous.
I need to go. I’m not supposed to see this. As I turn away, I hear her cry of pleasure as she comes. I clamp my hands over my ears, but it’s too late. I’m officially a Peeping Tom. A pervert of the highest degree. A card-carrying creep. I should be on a watch list. My own personal one, at least.
Shame hits me like a snow shovel to the face. My brain short-circuits, my body overheats, and my moral compass apparently just packed up and moved to Alaska.