32. I Want To Break Free
I WANT TO brEAK FREE
NORA
When Camilla and Marcus come to pick me up, I debate whether going out is a good idea.
My mind is still replaying this morning—Wes's hand on my arm, the confrontation, how Nate stepped between us like it was the most natural thing in the world.
How he looked at Wes with that deadly calm that was somehow more terrifying than any shouting could have been.
Camilla knows enough to read me anyway.
"This will be good for you. Promise," she says as we pull up to Sonder. "But if you really want to, we can just go back to the lake house, open wine, talk shit about men." She looks over her shoulder. "No offence, obviously."
"None taken," Marcus says cheerfully. "We're very shit-on-able as a gender."
"Statistically accurate," Alex adds without looking up from his phone. "I've represented enough of them to have data."
"No," I interrupt. "I need to get out of my head for a while. And besides, we need to celebrate you officially becoming someone's fiancée."
Camilla's been keeping her engagement on the down-low since Jay proposed—because of my recent spectacular implosion.
Marcus told me earlier that she wasn't even planning to wear the ring tonight because she didn't want to make things weird.
I'd told him that was ridiculous. That I'd be offended if she didn't wear it.
Still, I appreciate the thoughtfulness.
"Translation: she needs to get drunk and dance," Marcus calls from the backseat where he's wedged next to Alex.
"Exactly."
Alex leans forward between the seats. "As her legal counsel, I advise getting extremely drunk and making questionable decisions. It's therapeutic."
"You're an entertainment lawyer, not a therapist," I point out.
"Same skill set. Both involve managing people's poor life choices."
Camilla reaches over and squeezes my hand. "You sure you're okay?"
"I'm sure. Now let's go celebrate the fact that Jay somehow convinced you to say yes."
The energy at Sonder tonight is different—charged, almost electric.
They're doing an eighties and nineties throwback night, and the entire bar is drowning in nostalgia. Depeche Mode, The Cure, New Order—the kind of music that makes everyone feel something even if they don't know why.
We find a table in the back, and Camilla orders shots before I can even sit down.
"To new beginnings," Marcus says, raising his glass.
"To getting rid of cheating assholes," Camilla adds with a wink.
"To surviving another day in this chaos," I finish.
We throw them back, tequila burning warm.
Camilla sets her glass down, then looks at us with nervous excitement.
"So," she starts, fidgeting with her ring. "I wanted to ask you both something. Now that it's official and we're actually planning this thing..."
"Oh god," Marcus says dramatically. "She's going to make us wear matching outfits, isn't she?"
"Shut up," Camilla laughs. "I want you both in my bridal party. You're my people. I can't imagine standing up there without you."
After everything—ending my engagement, the confrontation with Wes, whatever is happening with Nate—being asked to stand beside my best friend feels like a reminder that good things still exist.
"Are you kidding?" I grab her hand. "Of course. I'd be honored."
Marcus nods enthusiastically. "Obviously yes. But I have questions about the dress code because if you put me in a tux that doesn't fit right, I will complain the entire time."
"You're in charge of all the tuxes," Camilla says. "If I left that up to Jay, everyone would be wearing shorts and hoodies down the aisle."
We all laugh.
"Speaking of disasters," Marcus says, turning to me. "How are you doing? Like, actually?"
I take a long sip of my vodka soda. "Define 'doing.'"
"Wes hasn't tried contacting you again, has he?" Camilla asks, concern creasing her brow.
"Oh, he did better than that." I set down my drink. "He showed up at the cabin this morning."
Marcus's mouth falls open. "He WHAT?"
Alex straightens in his seat. “Please tell me you documented everything."
“Yeah, he just showed up. Unannounced."
"That fucking—" Camilla starts, but I hold up a hand.
"It gets better. When he grabbed my arm.—"
The table goes silent.
"He grabbed you?" Marcus's voice has gone dangerously quiet.
Alex's expression goes cold. "That's assault. I can have paperwork filed by tomorrow if you want a restraining order."
"I'm going to kill him," Camilla says flatly. "I'm actually going to kill him. Alex will you represent me at the trial?”
“Oh, absolutely.” Alex says.
"Wait, was Nate there?" Marcus leans forward.
“He came back from the store, saw Wes grabbing me, and..." I pause, remembering.
"What did he do?" Camilla demands.
“He told him if he didm’t let go of me, he’d be spending the next year learning how to write with the opposite hand.”
"Holy shit," Marcus whispers.
"The hottest thing I've ever heard," Alex finishes. "I'm sorry, but it is."
“I’ve seen Nate angry before,” I admit. "But that …was something else entirely. But yeah. Kind of hot."
"Kind of?" Marcus raises an eyebrow. "Nora, the man threatened violence on your behalf and physically intervened. He’s defiantly the main character for book number four.”
"So what happened after?" Camilla asks.
"Wes left." I trail off, remembering how Nate had turned to me, all that hardness melting into pure concern.
"And Nate?" Camilla prompts.
"Asked if I was okay. Checked my arm. Made me breakfast."
“Made you breakfast!?” Marcus and Alex say in unison.
Alex just shakes his head. "And you're here instead of at his place because...?"
"Stop," I hiss, glancing around.
“You're in love with him. He's clearly in love with you. Wes is gone. What's complicated about this situation anymore?” Camilla asks.
"I just ended an engagement. This whole movie thing is up in the air. I don't even know who I am without—"
"Without someone else defining you?" Marcus finishes gently. "Maybe that's exactly why you need to figure it out before jumping into anything with Nate."
Alex sets down his drink. "As someone who's known you for approximately six days, I feel uniquely qualified to say: you seem to know exactly who you are. You're just scared to be her because she's messier than the version Wes wanted."
The observation lands with unexpected weight.
“Thanks Alex.” I mutter with a smile.
Camilla nods. "As much as I want to see you two together, Marcus and Alex have a point. You need to be whole on your own first."
"Since when did my love life become a group project?"
"Since you made terrible decisions and needed intervention," Marcus says cheerfully.
"Fair."
Camilla presses another drink into my hand. "New rule. No more talk about Wes or complicated feelings. Tonight we celebrate."
"To protective streaks," Marcus says, raising his glass.
"And to friends who threaten violence on our behalf," I add.
"To restraining orders if needed," Alex adds with a slight smile.
We drink to that.
Eventually, one drink becomes two. Two becomes three.
The edges blur, and I let them.
The alcohol spreads warmth through my chest, making everything softer.
And then the opening notes of "I Want To Break Free" explode through the speakers.
"THIS IS MY SONG!" I shriek, and suddenly we're abandoning our drinks and shoving through the crowd like it's a religious experience.
I climb onto the bar without thinking—or permission—and realize very quickly that I'm significantly more than tipsy right now.
But honestly? I don't give a single fuck. I just want to dance.
By the second chorus, the entire bar has joined in. Everyone's singing, swaying, throwing their arms up like we're at our own private Queen concert and Freddie Mercury himself is about to materialize.
I'm lost in it—the music, the movement, the feeling of being completely, recklessly free.
The song transitions eventually—“Bette Davis Eyes," that slow, sultry beat—and that's when it happens.
A shift in the air. A pull I feel before I see.
My eyes find him like they're magnetized, like my body knew he was here before my brain caught up. Nate’s standing in the doorway with Jay, but he's not looking at Jay or the crowd or anything else.
He's looking at me.
And the way he's looking at me—
Fuck.
Everything else falls away. The music becomes distant. The crowd dissolves into shadows. There's just him, backlit by the entrance, absolutely still except for the rise and fall of his chest.
Recognition hits first. Then surprise, blooming across his face like he can't quite believe what he's seeing. Then something darker. Hotter. More dangerous. Our eyes lock, and even drunk, even elevated on this bar with fifty people between us, I feel it.
That pull.
That gravitational force that's always existed between us, suddenly amplified by distance and want and the fact that I'm half-dressed and barefoot and dancing like I don't have a care in the world.
His lips part.
His eyes track down slowly taking in my wild hair, my flushed skin, the way my dress has ridden up my thighs from dancing. Taking in all of me as if he's cataloging every detail to replay later. And when his gaze drags back up to meet mine, the heat there nearly knocks me off the bar.
It's not disapproval.
It's hunger.
Pure, undisguised, barely restrained hunger. Like he's two seconds away from crossing this bar and doing exactly that.
Time snaps back to speed. The music surges. The crowd roars. Reality rushes back in. But he's still staring. And I'm still moving because he's watching me like that and my body has decided it wants to give him a show.
"Her hair is Harlow gold, her lips are sweet surprise..."
I sing it to the room but really, I'm singing it to him.
My hips sway to the beat. My hands slide through my hair. My eyes never leave his. He cuts through the crowd like it doesn't exist, just like he did when we found each other in that nightclub in Malaga. He moves like nothing matters except closing the distance between us.
People step aside without him asking. He stops at the edge of the bar, directly below me, and looks up.
And the expression on his face—
Heat. Hunger. Want so intense it makes the air between us feel electric.
"She'll tease you, she'll unease you..."
The lyrics hang between us like a challenge.
I extend my hand down to him. It’s half invitation, half dare.
And he takes it without hesitation.
His palm is warm, callused, rough against my softer skin. The contact sends electricity shooting up my arm, down my spine, pooling low in my belly.
"Dance with me," I say.
“How much have you had to drink?"
"Lost count after four." I lean closer, and his eyes darken further. "Dance with me anyway."
For a moment, he just looks at me. Like he's weighing options. Then his hands find my waist—firm, possessive, certain—and he lifts me down.
Not helps.
Lifts.
As if I weigh nothing and he could hold me there forever. My body slides against his on the way down, and the friction makes my breath catch. When my feet hit the ground, we're chest to chest.
Face to face. No space. No air.
Nothing between us but want.
The music pulses around us, but I barely hear it. All I can focus on is him. The heat of his body. The way his hands are still on my waist, thumbs pressing just above my hipbones. The way he's looking at me like there’s not a single soul in this entire bar.
We dance but it's not really dancing. It's foreplay disguised as movement.
His body moves with mine, matching my rhythm, anticipating every shift and sway. We're not touching more than necessary, but somehow it feels more intimate than if we were pressed together.
What’s happening between us is charged. Electric. Dangerous.
I let myself notice everything I've been trying not to see.
The breadth of his shoulders under that black t-shirt.
The way it stretches across his chest when he moves.
The lines of his arms, muscles shifting beneath skin as his hands hover near my waist. The way his hips move—controlled, deliberate, absolutely sinful.
How he watches me like I’m something he wants to ruin. Heat coils tight and low in my stomach. Pure, undiluted longing. My breathing goes shallow and suddenly my skin feels too tight.
“You okay?" he asks softly, leaning in so I can hear him over the music.
His breath ghosts across my neck, and I shiver.
I shake my head slightly, but I'm smiling. "Better now."
“Landslide” starts—it’s slow, something that requires less space—and his hands find my waist again.
But this time, he doesn't let go.
This time, he pulls me closer. We're not even pretending now. Not maintaining polite distance or dancing like friends. We're bodies pressed together, swaying to music neither of us is really hearing.
I sway slightly—alcohol, proximity, the overwhelming want making me unsteady—and his grip tightens immediately, pulling me even closer to stabilize me.
To keep me.
Now there's no space at all.
I can feel his heart beating against mine. Can feel the tension in his body, the restraint it's costing him not to close the final distance.
His eyes have gone dark. Almost black. Fixed on my mouth. And I know—I know—if I lean forward even an inch, he'll kiss me.
That all this restraint, all this careful control, will shatter.
"Okay, lightweight."
Camilla's voice cuts through the haze like cold water.
She appears at my elbow, eyebrow raised, knowing smile on her face.
"I think you've had enough."
"I'm not drunk," I protest weakly, even though I absolutely am, only it’s not just the alcohol doing it and we both know it.
Nate's hands are still on my waist. He hasn't moved. Hasn't even stepped back.
"Nate, can you take her home?" Camilla asks, but she's looking at him with an intensity that feels like a warning and a blessing all at once. "We're heading back to the lake house, but I don't trust her alone tonight."
"I can take care of myself—" I start.
"I've got her," Nate interrupts, and there's finality in his tone.
Not controlling. Just absolutely certain.
Like there was never any other option. Like he'd fight anyone who suggested otherwise.
Camilla looks at him for a long moment, then at me, then back at him.
"Look after our girl," she says, and it sounds like both a request and a threat.
"Always," he says simply.
The promise in that single word makes my chest tight.
Makes my breath catch.
Makes me wonder what happens next.