Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Scottie
Don’t Confuse Bacon with Love
There’s absolutely no reason I should still be here.
I should’ve left three orgasms ago. That was the plan. A sensible, emotionally distant adult plan.
Instead, I’m in Jason Tate’s bed, wrapped in sheets that smell like him, and thinking about whether there are enough condoms in that magical drawer of his for one more round before I have to leave.
The water shuts off in the bathroom, followed by the soft thud of a cabinet. I hear him humming—off-key—and then his voice, a little too casual and way too tempting.
“Babe, you want to shower? I can wash you—and dirty you again.”
The answer should be no. There should be no more dirtying. We passed the legal limit on filth somewhere between his mouth on my thighs, and the moment he made me forget my name. I should be halfway out the door, fumbling for my bra, not lying here wet in places that should be recovering.
The bathroom door opens with a soft creak, and then he walks in, towel slung low on his hips, body still dripping.
His hair is wet, curling slightly at the ends, and a single drop of water rolls down the line of his chest, tracking over abs that should come with a warning label.
My entire mouth goes dry while the rest of me does the exact opposite.
It’s not just that he’s hot. That would be manageable.
It’s the way he moves—completely at ease, completely aware of what he does to me.
He’s not showing off, but he might as well be on a runway.
The towel barely clings to his hips, and I find myself watching it like it’s about to reveal a spoiler I’m desperate to see again.
He catches my stare and grins. Not just any grin. No, this one’s slow, smug, and so fucking confident it should also come with a warning label. The one smile that usually makes me want to throw something at him—or throw myself at him, depending on the day.
Right now?
Right now, it’s lethal.
The bastard could get someone pregnant just by standing too close.
My thighs squeeze together under the covers on pure instinct, as if that’s going to do a damn thing to help the situation brewing between them. Spoiler alert: it does not.
He shifts toward the bed, slow and lazy, like he’s got all the time in the world to ruin me.
“I’d ask what you’re thinking . . .” His voice is a low scrape, full of amusement as he drifts closer, fingers absently rubbing a drop of water off his abs like he’s completely unaware he’s committing premeditated murder.
(He’s very fucking aware.)
“. . . but I’m pretty sure the look on your face says it all.”
I yank the sheet up over my chest like it’s chainmail, and I’m about to joust him.
“You’re dripping on your sheets,” I manage to choke out, aiming for nonchalant and landing somewhere around ‘hysterical virgin who’s never seen a shirtless man before.’
Jason cocks an eyebrow, reaching the edge of the bed and bracing his hand against the mattress like he’s about to pounce.
His grin deepens, downright wicked now. “Good thing they’re already soaked,” he murmurs, gaze dropping to where the sheet is definitely not hiding the way my nipples have betrayed me.
I bury my face in the crook of my arm with a groan. “Stop being hot. It’s rude.”
He laughs, low and dirty, the sound curling around my toes and dragging heat right back into my bloodstream.
“I could be polite,” he says, voice all sinful promise. “Or I could make you come so hard you forget why you were ever mad about it.”
I peek at him from under my arm.
Mistake.
Big fucking mistake.
Because now he’s leaning in, the towel slipping just enough to threaten my sanity, his eyes locked on mine like he’s got every intention of following through.
“Jason, we had a deal,” I remind him, even though my voice is nowhere near convincing. “This was supposed to be causal.”
“I’m casually approaching you.” He leans closer, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead, his knuckles warm and gentle. “Very casual.”
I can’t breathe when he’s this close. Not properly.
“No emotions,” he murmurs. “No expectations. That was the agreement.”
I try to think of something witty, something that puts distance back between us. But then he moves just slightly, and the towel slips a little lower. There’s a promise in that shift—silent and devastating. My eyes betray me before I can stop them.
“You’re considering it,” he says, watching me watch him. “Trying to decide if your legs still work.”
“They don’t,” I admit, because lying right now is impossible. “Also, I want coffee before I leave. It’ll be irresponsible to head home half-tired.”
“I’ll make you coffee after,” he offers with a grin that should be illegal. “Right after I ruin you again.”
My thighs clench. He sees it.
My resolve? Already in pieces, and Jason? He watches me like I’m a little bunny rabbit, and he’s the big bad wolf about to eat me.
As much as I’d like to stay wrapped in these overpriced sheets, inhaling Jason’s stupidly intoxicating scent and pretending last night didn’t happen, I need to move. I need to stand up, put clothes on, and get my dignity back in something other than his T-shirt.
I swing my legs off the bed and start the search for my underwear, which appears to have made a break for freedom at some point during the night.
My skirt is wrinkled beyond repair, and my blouse looks like I lost a wrestling match with it.
I tug it on anyway, buttoning slowly, trying to ignore the way his scent still clings to my skin.
I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t still be in his space, breathing his air, contemplating whether I could sneak one more kiss without making this something.
There’s no next time.
Hypothetically—if I ever considered it, which I don’t—I’d bring backup clothes. But I’m not. So, I won’t.
I pad into the kitchen, barefoot, shirt untucked, hair all over the place—I so need a brush. I’m trying not to notice how much this feels like something I shouldn’t want.
Jason’s at the stove, barefoot, too, wearing gray joggers that ride low on his hips.
He’s flipping bacon like a man who’s not currently shattering my life plans with breakfast. The muscles in his back shift when he moves, and the towel slung over his shoulder gives him an offensively domestic vibe that has no business being this attractive.
He turns slightly, offering a slight nod toward the counter.
“The coffee’s almost done,” he says, flipping another slice with infuriating ease. “I can make you a smoothie if that’s more your vibe.”
My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
“No, thank you,” I manage, then blurt out, “I don’t need you to feed me.”
“Didn’t say you needed it,” he responds, as if he’s expecting me to lash out and is ready not to take the bait. “I said I’m making it.”
He plates the eggs and bacon with maddening calm, pours coffee into two matching mugs like this is just another morning in his life. I watch him move—precise, focused. He’s probably absurdly good at hosting brunch, and I hate how easily he fits into this domestic fantasy.
I eye the plate.
Then him.
Then, the plate again.
“Don’t confuse post-coital breakfast with emotional attachment,” I warn, arms crossing like that’ll shield me from how good it smells.
He slides the plate across the counter, deadpan as ever. “I’m literally offering you eggs, not a mortgage.”
I grab a piece of bacon and take a bite just to shut him up.
It’s perfect.
Of course, it’s perfect.
He cooks like he fucks—confident, precise, and just smug enough to make me want to scream and beg for more in the same breath.
I sit on a stool, the granite counter cool under my bare thighs. He slides the mug toward me, and I take a sip, trying not to moan at the flavor.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” I say between sips.
Jason leans on his elbows, sipping from his mug and watching me with an unreadable gaze that makes my spine twitch.
“It means you have to eat.”
“No, I mean this,” I clarify, gesturing between us like it’s a third party I can argue with. “Last night was amazing. Wildly efficient. Top-tier. But it doesn’t change the fact that this is nothing. Just . . . casual.”
He hums. Low. Noncommittal. “If you say so.”
“I do say so,” I snap, chewing another bite of bacon like I’m proving a point through pork. “I just want to be clear. No expectations.”
“You’re eating my food and defining boundaries like you’re trying to convince yourself,” he says, completely unbothered.
I freeze.
Then recover—barely. “I’m establishing terms.”
“Of course you are.”
My phone rings. I walk toward the couch where I left it, and reach for it, grateful for the distraction, only to find a cluster of missed calls and texts lighting up my screen.
Four missed calls from Papa. Two from Dad. A dozen texts from Hailey.
Perfect.
Hailey: Blink twice if you need me to rescue you.
Hailey: Okay, I assume you don’t need rescuing . . . do you need extra condoms?
Hailey: Did you make it home, Ella Crawford?
The last one makes me laugh, though.
Hailey: I assume you’re having a good time. Call when you can, or at least text me so I know you’re okay.
I roll my eyes, fingers flying over the keyboard.
Me: If I said hypothetically that I accidentally stayed the night at Jason’s, would that be . . . bad?
She replies instantly.
Hailey: You mean “accidentally got eaten into an orgasm-coma and woke up wearing his shirt like a little cupcake of denial”?
I snort.
Jason raises a brow from across the counter. “Something funny?”
I glance at him—shirtless, smug, feeding me bacon and pouring coffee like this isn’t entirely too much.
“Just . . . Hailey being Hailey.”
And me?
Being entirely too close to falling for the guy who made me breakfast like that’s not a big deal.
Me: That’s . . . oddly specific.
Hailey: Don’t dodge. Do you want more?
Me: I want it to be nothing. But I also don’t want it to be . . . not anything?
Hailey: That sounds like feelings.
Me: It’s not feelings. It’s logistics. Sex logistics.