Chapter Thirteen
Paige
I wake up feeling like I didn’t sleep at all.
My body is heavy, my head aching in that dull, foggy way that comes from tossing and turning for hours.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him. Heard his voice.
Heard my own voice, clipped and cold, trying to hold myself together when I felt anything but.
The ceiling above my bed is pale with early morning light, and I stare at it like maybe if I stay still enough, the memory of last night will blur into something less sharp.
But it doesn’t. It’s all there—his hands, his mouth, the way it felt so good I forgot to breathe.
The way my chest lit up when he looked at me like he wanted me.
And then the way it all burned down in mere seconds.
It was a mistake.
I roll onto my side, clutching the blanket like it might hold me together.
It’s not like I didn’t know it would be complicated.
Ben Hoffman isn’t just anyone— he’s Jason’s best friend.
He’s my landlord. He’s… Ben. But hearing the words come out of his mouth, sharp and panicked, felt like getting punched.
Especially since he’d been inside me only minutes before.
I told him it didn’t matter. That we’d pretend it never happened. But lying here now, my chest aches in a way I hate. Because it does matter. And pretending is a hell of a lot harder when every nerve in my body still remembers exactly what it was like.
I drag myself out of bed and shuffle to the kitchen, the floor cold under my bare feet.
The coffee maker gurgles to life, and I stand there watching it, arms wrapped tight around myself.
I’ve got a mountain of work waiting at the bakery, but I’m not sure how I’m supposed to step into that space today.
Not when there’s a chance I can smell his soap in the air, the smell of what we did there last night.
I take my first sip of coffee and make myself a silent promise: today, I work. I focus. I paint until my arms are sore, I keep my head down. And if Ben Hoffman decides to darken my doorway, I’ll smile like nothing happened.
Because maybe, if I pretend hard enough, I can turn that lie into truth.
The brush drags smoothly over the wall, the blue sinking in rich and even, and I focus on that—on the soft hiss of bristles, the faint smell of paint, the steady rhythm of my hand.
Not on the fact that Ben is twenty feet away, probably moving around behind the bar.
Not on the memory of his hands, his mouth, his cock, or the way my pulse jumped every time I heard the front door of the brewery earlier.
The bell above my own door jingles, and I almost drop the brush.
Jason steps inside, his expression already pinched. He’s got his hands shoved in his hoodie pocket, shoulders tight. “What the hell’s up with Ben?”
I keep my gaze on the wall. “You’d have to be more specific,” I say, my tone short.
“I was just next door grabbing a pint, and he’s being a total snarly ass. Barely said two words, kept scowling at everyone like they’d personally offended him. What’s his deal?”
I dip the brush into the tray, careful not to splash. “Maybe he’s just tired. You know how crazy weekends are there.”
Jason snorts. “Yeah, but this is different. He’s acting… I don’t know. Weird.”
I shrug, moving the brush in long, deliberate strokes. “Maybe ask him.”
“I tried. He just said he’s fine, which is clearly bullshit.” Jason leans against the counter, watching me like he’s waiting for me to confirm something. “Did you guys have some kind of argument? He gets like this when something’s bugging him.”
“No,” I snap. “We didn’t have an argument. We’re fine. He said he’s fine, so let it go.”
Jason blinks at me, eyebrows lifting like I just barked at him. “Okay. Touchy.”
I set the brush down in the tray and straighten, wiping my hands on the rag tucked into my back pocket. “I’m just trying to paint, Jase. I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I want you to tell me why my best friend—and my sister—are acting like someone pissed in their beers,” he says, still watching me like he’s waiting for me to crack.
I grab the brush again, turning back to the wall. “Maybe it’s something at the brewery. Or maybe he just doesn’t feel like talking today. Not everything’s a crisis.”
Jason huffs out a laugh that’s more frustration than humor. “Right. And maybe I was born yesterday.”
I roll another stroke of blue onto the wall, the bristles leaving perfect, even lines, and pretend I don’t feel his stare boring into the side of my face. “Believe what you want, Jason.”
“I do believe what I want,” he says, pushing off the counter and pacing a few slow steps behind me. “And right now I believe something’s going on with you and Ben, and you’re both too stubborn to admit it.”
The paintbrush stills in my hand. My shoulders tense, but I force myself to dip the brush again, like I’m completely unaffected. “You’ve got a hell of an imagination.”
“It’s not imagination. I’ve known him half my life, and I’ve known you your whole damn life. You’re both walking around like somebody set your houses on fire, and I’m supposed to believe it’s just coincidence?”
I glance over my shoulder, giving him a tight smile. “Yes. You’re supposed to believe that because I’m telling you it is.”
Jason narrows his eyes, like he’s measuring me, trying to decide if pushing will get him anywhere. “So you didn’t fight?”
“No.”
“I’m just exploring all avenues,” he replies, leaning back against the counter again.
I set the brush down deliberately, turning to face him fully.
“Here’s the thing, Jason: you’re my brother, and I love you, but you don’t get to play detective in my life.
Stop ‘exploring the avenues’ or whatever.
If Ben’s in a mood, that’s between him and whoever pissed him off.
It’s not my job to keep tabs on his feelings.
And if that person’s me, then it’s between me and my landlord, not you. ”
He stares at me, mouth working like he’s about to argue, but then he lets out a sharp breath and lifts his hands in surrender. “Fine. Whatever. Keep your secrets.”
“I don’t have secrets,” I say, though we both know that’s a lie.
“Right.” His tone is dry as he pushes away from the counter and heads for the door.
When his hand closes on the knob, he pauses and glances back. “If you see him before I do, tell him to get his head out of his ass. He’s got customers who actually like him, and it’s bad for business when he’s glowering at them.”
“I’ll be sure to pass that along,” I say, already picking the brush back up.
The bell jingles when he leaves, leaving the quiet behind. I press the bristles to the wall and start painting again, but my chest feels tight, my ears still ringing with Jason’s suspicion.
I don’t let myself look out the window toward the brewery, but every brushstroke feels like a battle to keep my focus where it belongs—on the color in front of me, and not on the man next door who’s apparently just as bad at pretending as I am.