Chapter 22
I wake up to a soft beam of sunlight on my skin. It takes me a few minutes to fully realize where I am, and why the cotton beneath my chin is slightly scratchier than the one at home. Why the bed is softer… and why I’m so warm.
I’m being held tightly by the large shape behind me.
His leg is between mine, and his arm is draped over my waist. Steady breaths fan my temple, and I close my eyes for a few seconds. It feels good to be held. Warm. Safe. I don’t know when it happened last… if it ever had. Not like this. Dean had never been a cuddler, and?—
Dean.
Nate. It’s Nate. Of course, it’s Nate. And last night, we had…
I blink at the pheasant statue on the nightstand. It matches the colors of the drapes. Nate made me come, and then I’d done the same for him. Under the covers and in the darkness.
Heat and mortification rise to my cheeks. I’m glad he’s asleep and I don’t have to face him yet.
He touched me as if he wanted to for ages, and like he enjoyed doing it the entire time. Not like there was a finish line to race toward or an end goal in mind.
I screw my eyes tightly shut and settle deeper into the cradle of his arms. Can we do that again? He is a bachelor. Has been for as long as I’ve known him. He’s also been linked to a few high-profile women, beautiful ones who have been on his arm at various events every once in a while. Of course he’s good at sex. Would it be so bad of me to enjoy him, too? For us to enjoy each other?
Nate’s breathing turns into a sigh, and he shifts, just slightly, bringing all of my focus to the distinct heaviness against my ass.
He’s hard again.
While still asleep, in the morning light, and everything inside of me tightens at that realization. I didn’t have a chance to see him yesterday.
A stuttering breath, and then he’s flexing his arm around my waist, clearing his throat. Awake. Or about to be.
I hold still. Waiting.
What will he do when he wakes up?
Something warm nudges my neck, my shoulder. His lips? “Good morning” He sounds hoarse, rough from sleep.
“Morning,” I whisper back.
He clears his throat again, and the arm around me tightens even more. A second later, the erection pressed against my back is gone. Like he’d realized it too and shifted his hips away.
“Slept well?”
“Better than I should’ve, in a new bed and all,” I say.
His arm moves. Hand goes to my hip, and I don’t feel any less tense. Looking at him would solve all kinds of problems. But it might also start new ones, and right now, I don’t know what I want more.
I push into seating. His arm falls away entirely, and I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. Look at the alarm clock. “It’s… nine o’clock.”
“Nine?” he repeats. “Damn. Didn’t expect that.”
“Can I shower first?”
“Of course.” His voice is still hoarse, but there’s something calm about it, too. Maybe he knows it’s what I need right now to still my racing mind. “It’s all yours.”
“Thanks. Um, do you think our phones work now?” I stand up and realize I’m just in my panties and camisole, and the room is bright with morning light. I run a hand over my wild hair, suddenly self-conscious. It dried overnight, and I don’t know what it looks like.
Nate sits up against the headboard. His hair is mussed, his eyes heavy on mine. The cover has slid down to his waist, and there’s not a stitch of clothing to hide the breadth of his chest from view. The chest I slept against all night.
One of his knees is bent.
I wonder if that’s to hide his erection.
I wonder if he’ll take care of it while I shower.
And I wonder if I can ask him about it or if we’re going to pretend like nothing happened.
“Hopefully. I’ll call my mechanic while you shower,” he says. “I’ll get us out of here in no time. I promise.”
I nod. “Thank you so much.”
And when I emerge from the bathroom fifteen minutes later, he’s up. Fully dressed and standing with his back to me. The bed is made, both of our phones are charging nearby. Whatever Nate did or didn’t do in the silence of the bedroom is impossible to know.
I’ve put my hair up into a ponytail. It’s the best I can do with the wayward curls. When Nate hands me my phone, I try not to flinch at the bright screen. It had been sort of nice to go twelve hours without looking at it once.
“He’s on his way. My mechanic,” he says quietly. “I’ll check us out.”
“Can I go for a walk around the town?”
“Of course you can, Harper. You can do whatever you like.” I feel his gaze on me, and the softness of his voice makes me think of things done in the dark. Do whatever you like.
I swallow hard. “See you in a bit.”
The village of Ashcroft is tiny, but it’s cute. I snap pictures of the thatched roof on one of the houses and of a group of deer in a meadow past the village’s stone church. Stopping at a quaint grocery store, now open, I grab a loaf of bread and a bottle of juice. Something for the drive back.
I find Nate with two men by the Aston Martin when I return. The car has a new tire, but the three of them are deep in a discussion about the one that had blown. The wiry man at Nate’s right is looking down at the frayed rubber and shaking his head.
I sit down on the nearby stone hedge and munch on some bread. Watch the men discuss.
Twenty minutes later, the car is back in full working order. We say goodbye to Ashcroft and get back on the road.
The silence in the car isn’t oppressive. It isn’t tense. But it isn’t exactly quite as natural as it had been yesterday, either. The unsaid words hang between us. I watch Nate’s hand on the stick shift as he accelerates and think of where it had been last night. How those long fingers stroked and entered and curved inside me, and how it had been so much better than it had any right to be.
I play around with the radio. We share a bottle of juice. I munch on another piece of bread, and, outside the window, the beautiful pastoral landscapes gradually change back into cityscapes. Villages turn into suburbs. Fields become overpasses.
“Harper,” he says when we’re driving into Kensington, just before we arrive home. From the tone of his voice, I know what he has to say will be different from the passing conversation we’ve had so far.
My stomach tightens. “Nate.”
He chuckles. “Didn’t mean for this to become so formal.”
“Good. It doesn’t have to be, I think.”
“It doesn’t,” he agrees. “I think last night was… well. You might think it’s a mistake, again, like you did after the party.”
I shake my head. “That feels kind of pointless at this point. Don’t you think?”
Nate glances at me. His expression is guarded, the look in his eyes is hard to read. “Yes. I suppose.”
I take a deep breath. “We’re friends who like to… to… do things. Who clearly find each other… attractive.” I glance in his direction again. He’s busy reversing into the underground parking garage, right next to his other two precious vehicles, but he seems to catch my nervous glance all the same. “I don’t mean to speak for you, of course.”
He finishes parking, turns the engine off, and looks me dead in the eyes. “Harp, of course I find you attractive.”
My throat tightens. “Right. So… given that… I think it’s okay that we’re friends who sometimes like to do some not-so-friendly things.”
“Or very friendly,” he says, “depending on how you look at it.”
Tension seeps out of me at his words. “Yes. Exactly.”
“Don’t worry, Harp. I’m never going to go weird on you.” He reaches across the center console and brushes a few strands of my hair back, notching them behind my ear. “We can be whatever you want us to be.”
“Oh,” I breathe.
His gaze is locked on my hair, and his fingers tunnel through. There’s something in his eyes. Something I can’t really place, can’t really figure out?—
He looks back at me and smiles crookedly. “No pressure.”
“No pressure,” I repeat. “And no strings?”
“None.”
“And the box stays shut.”
He nods. “The box stays shut,” he agrees. Dean never has to know, and I feel relief unfurl inside of me like a sunrise. “Now come on. Let’s get home and out of these fucking awful clothes. I don’t want to wear pajama pants ever again.”
“Just because they’re not tailor-made doesn’t mean they’re awful,” I tease.
He locks the car behind us with one hand and wraps his other arm around my shoulders. “I only wear sweats from Savile Row,” he says. “Haven’t you learned that by now?”
Tranquil delight floods me at seeing the townhouse. Home. The strength of the sentiment takes me by surprise. Somewhere over the past weeks, I’d come to think of it like that.
The month Nate gambled and won is almost up. I should be looking for a new place. Should start the process again. But I’ll miss this place when I leave.
Nate unlocks the front door and shuts off the alarm. Then, stares at the envelope lying in the hallway.
Tossed in through the mail slot in the door.
My name is written on it in large, scrawling letters. No stamps.
“Harper…” he says and bends to pick it up. “It’s heavy. Whatever it is.”
I reach for the envelope, and he hands it to me almost reluctantly, as if there might be some kind of hidden danger inside. I open it up and tip the contents out.
A key chain. And a note.
“‘Harper,’” I read. “‘I have to go to the emergency room after a little accident at home. I’ve given the paramedic this note to drop at yours. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. Can you take care of Quincy and Stanley for me? I will forever be in your debt.’ Oh, it’s from Richard! This must be his key.”
Nate’s voice is dark. “Your neighbor friend?”
“Yes. God, I hope he’s okay! I wish I could text him. We never exchanged phone numbers.” It’s easy to picture Richard and his formal manner, and how he’d been forced to ask the EMT to walk over here with the letter. The dogs would be barking excitedly with all the new people. “The dogs! They might have been alone since yesterday, depending on when he left this. We have to go.”
“Richard,” Nate mutters. But he follows behind me. “Is he… do you think he’s very ill?”
“He’s always seemed healthy to me. But you know, at that age, I suppose anything might happen. I hope he hasn’t taken a fall at home…” I’m already up the next stoop, key in hand. “Let’s get the boys. Poor Richard.”
Nate’s voice is hollow behind me. “At his age?”
“Yes. He’s in his late seventies.”
“Oh,” he says. “Right. I thought he was… younger.”
“He’s your next-door neighbor!”
“I don’t know my neighbors.”
“Well, he certainly knows you. And he told me that you have a very beautiful vintage Aston Martin.” I get the door open and I’m greeted immediately by the two dachshunds. Quincy’s tail wags slightly side-to-side, like the distinguished pup he is, compared to Stanley’s helicopter movements.
“I’ll leave a note with my phone number… we have to take them home. Oh, I wish I could call him.”
“Right. Shit. Yeah… I can pick this one up.” It takes us a few minutes to find their leashes hanging on a hook in the hallway and to make it back into Nate’s house. The difference between the two hallways feels stark. One is expertly and modernly designed; the other felt lived in, with slightly yellowed wallpaper and an oriental carpet.
We’re left standing in Nate’s living room, with the two dogs sniffing the new place thoroughly, scoping out their surroundings.
“This is okay, isn’t it?” I ask. “We have to help Richard, and Quincy and Stanley are very well-behaved gentlemen.”
“I think the brown one just peed on my rug.”
“Okay, so they have incontinence issues. Gentlemen over a certain age often do.” I bend to scoop up Quincy. His floppy ears are silky, and his little body is surprisingly warm. “It’s very ill-mannered of you to point that out.”
“Harper,” Nate says. “If we’re going to… babysit these two hot dogs, we need supplies. I don’t have a single thing for pets in this house.”
“I know. I’ve already made a mental list.”
He runs a hand through his hair. Chuckles dryly, but then he just shrugs. “You know, I used to live a very orderly life here before you moved in. The house was always quiet. No near-nude women on the second floor landing, no meal prep containers in the fridge, and definitely no dogs.”
I smile sheepishly. “I know. Sorry about that. I could start looking for another place, you know, if you?—”
“No,” he says. Bends down to pet Stanley, who is fighting with the fringe of the living room rug. “Never, Harper.”