Chapter Eighteen
Evan
New York
Present Day
The first thing I registered was the pulse thrumming in my temples—a rhythmic, heavy beating that felt like a dull axe swinging against my skull. The second was the scent of melting butter and warm bread.
For a long minute, I didn’t move. I stayed pinned to the mattress, staring at the white expanse of the ceiling and trying to catalog the exact sequence of failures that had led me here.
Pieces of the previous night surfaced like debris after a wreck: the oppressive roar of the club, a blur of neon, and too many shots of tequila that tasted like regret.
And then—Nora.
My stomach did a violent lurch that had nothing to do with the alcohol.
I pushed myself upright, bracing for the room to spin, but the walls stayed mercifully still.
My apartment was quiet, save for the faint, domestic clink of a plate against the counter.
I swung my legs off the bed, my feet hitting the cold floor, and followed the sound.
She was standing at the stove, framed by the morning light.
She was wearing one of my shirts over the small black dress she’d worn the night before.
Her hair was gathered into a messy, impatient knot, with golden strands escaping to brush her neck.
She looked entirely too comfortable in my kitchen, a space where she had no business being.
She turned when she heard me, her expression unreadable. “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.”
My voice was a rough, broken thing. “Tell me I’m still dreaming. Please.”
She didn’t skip a beat, sliding a plate onto the granite island. “Toast. Water. Advil.” She looked me over, her eyes tracking the state of my wrinkled clothes and sleep-mussed hair. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
I leaned against the doorframe, rubbing the heels of my hands into my eyes. “I should have stopped way before I did.”
“That probably would have been wise.”
“You stayed,” I muttered, the weight of that realization sinking in.
“You were a disaster, Evan. I couldn’t exactly leave you to drown in your own bad choices.”
“My friends?”
“They sent you off with me with their blessing.” She pushed the water and the pills toward me. “Drink.”
I didn’t argue. Contradicting her felt like a physical feat I wasn’t prepared to attempt. When the glass was empty, she crossed her arms, the oversized sleeves of my shirt swallowing her hands. “How’s the head?”
“Like a construction site.”
“That sounds about right.”
I dropped onto a leather stool, the reality of the morning settling over me like a shroud. “You made breakfast.”
“I did.”
“Why, Nora?”
Her eyebrow arched, a spark of the old, stubborn Nora appearing. “You made toast for me once. In Boston. Remember?”
The memory hit me with more force than the hangover—the hushed hotel room weeks after her mother’s funeral, the way I’d watched over her because I couldn’t bear to see her that broken. I stared at the toast, the crust suddenly looking like an indictment. “You didn’t owe me a return on that favor.”
“I didn’t do it because I owed you,” she said softly. “I did it because I wanted to.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. Seeing her here—in my shirt, in my life, acting as if we were something we absolutely weren’t—felt dangerously like a dream I couldn’t afford to keep. I had to kill it. I had to build the walls back up before they crumbled completely.
I cleared my throat, forcing my tone to turn professional and cold. “You should probably leave, Nora.”
Her small smile didn’t just fade; it vanished. “That’s an abrupt way to say thank you.”
“I’m serious. You need to go.”
She set a butter knife down, the metal clacking against the stove. “Why?”
“Brady.”
She belonged with him.
I had no intention of staying long-term.
And Nora? She flourished in Firebrook Valley.
She blinked, her expression shifting from hurt to a deep, simmering confusion. “Brady?”
“Yes, Nora. Brady. My brother. The man you’re dating.”
Something flickered in her eyes. “I’m not—” She stopped, her jaw tightening as she started again. “Evan, I know who Brady is. In fact, he’s what I came to talk to you about.”
The tequila-headache made my temper brittle. “I’m not having that conversation.”
“What conversation?”
“The one where you use me as a sounding board for your relationship drama with him. The one where you ask me for advice on how to handle a Holliston.”
Her brow knit together, her hands dropping to her sides. “You think that’s why I’m here?”
I pushed off the stool. “I’m glad you’re happy. Really. Brady is a good man. If you’re having issues, I have faith you’ll work it out, but I’m not the person you should come to when things get messy with him.”
“Forget about Brady. This is about me and you,” she said quietly, her eyes dark with an emotion I couldn’t let myself soften to.
“No, Nora. Whatever you’re about to say—No.”
“Evan, you and I have always—”
“I’m not doing this.” My head was pounding with a rhythmic fury, but I didn’t stop. “Let me be clear. I don’t want this. And if you give yourself time to rethink this, you’ll realize you don’t either.”
She stood there, the warmth of the kitchen completely evaporated. “Wow.”
“Things are good the way they are. Let them be.” I looked away. I had to.
“You didn’t seem so good last night,” she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous, quiet level.
The comment was a jagged glass edge against my throat. “Because I was having fun?”
“That’s not how it looked to me.”
“Because you don’t know me.”
“But I do,” her voice lowered to a dangerously tempting plea.
My patience finally broke, shattering into a thousand sharp pieces. “You need to leave, Nora.”
“You won’t even listen to me?” She stared at me, her chin lifting with that trademark Burke pride. “I should go? Like we’re nothing to each other?”
“Yes.” I forced my voice to stay level, though it felt like I was tearing my own vocal cords. “Just like that. You made your choice.” I regretted those words as soon as I uttered them. They revealed too much, but if she stayed much longer I wasn’t sure I could remain strong enough to let her go.
Nora stared at me for another second, then she let out a short, cold laugh. “I had no idea you had such a low opinion of me.”
I felt my heart drop into my shoes.
“I thought we knew each other better than that,” she said, her voice trembling with a fury she was barely containing. “But you think I’m not only with your brother but want to be with you too. You’re an idiot and I don’t even know why I bothered coming here.”
We both knew why she was there, but I couldn’t let her say it. So, I stayed silent, watching as she grabbed her purse from the counter. She walked past me, a blur of white linen and hurt over that damn short dress of hers, and a moment later, the heavy thud of the front door signaled her departure.
The apartment was silent again, save for the hum of the refrigerator. I stood there, staring at the golden toast she’d made for me. My chest felt tight, as if a band of iron was slowly constricting my ribs.
Distance is good, I told myself. Distance is the only way.
But as I stood in the empty kitchen, her final words kept circling back, mocking my “noble” intentions.
Go back to Brady, Nora.
It doesn’t matter what we want.
I can’t cross that line.
Even if it costs me you.