Chapter 5
The rubber thongs of Taylor’s flip-flops pinched lightly between Charlotte’s toes, the oversized foam soles slap-slapping against the hardwood entry floor.
Outside, the beach wind had bitten straight through her blazer, but inside, the air embraced her in a slow wave of sandalwood and roasted coffee.
Charlotte’s damp pant legs clung cold and stiff against her shins while the lingering taste of Taylor burned hot against the back of her teeth, a friction of freezing salt water and liquid heat that set every nerve along her spine vibrating.
She looked around the room, her chest humming with an erratic, giddy pulse she hadn’t felt in twenty years.
Music sheets spilled across a faded vintage rug, a brass floor lamp cast long amber shadows over a low coffee table, and an acoustic guitar rested comfortably in the corner. The place smelled alive, uncurated, and completely unlike the sterile, beige symmetry of the house she’d shared with Diane.
Taylor set Charlotte’s ruined Italian pumps on a small woven mat by the door, shaking her head softly before looking up.
“You’re probably cold in those pants,” Taylor said, her eyes flicking down to the dark, sodden rings around Charlotte’s calves. “Hold on. I’ll grab you something dry.”
Taylor vanished through a door off the narrow hallway.
Charlotte stood near the center of the room, her thumbs hooked into the pockets of her damp trousers to hide the faint tremor in her fingers.
She couldn’t believe she was here. Two hours ago she’d been sitting on the beach, listening to Taylor sing, and now she was standing in her living room, wearing borrowed flip-flops.
Heavy heat pooled low in Charlotte’s belly at the memory of the kiss, the way she’d practically melted into Taylor, letting go entirely while her fingers tangled through chestnut waves and Taylor’s soft lips pressed into hers.
She swallowed hard and forced her gaze back to the room, pushing the memory down.
She hadn’t felt anything like that since... well, had she ever felt it?
Thoughts of Diane crept in, unwanted and sharp. Even in the beginning, their intimacy hadn’t been like this. It’d been a calculated rhythm between two high-achieving adults who scheduled sex between grant applications and faculty dinners. It hadn’t possessed this raw, chaotic pull.
Had it ever even matched what had just happened on the beach?
Charlotte caught herself, her throat tightening with a sharp pang of guilt.
She couldn’t compare them. That wasn’t fair.
She was just starved for it, that was all. Months of touch-deprivation made any spark look like a blaze. Basic human mechanics. A classic rebound phenomenon, an easy fix for a starving ego.
It felt good to be wanted. That was the whole truth.
Taylor stepped back out from the hallway, carrying two folded items of clothing.
“I wasn’t sure which you’d prefer,” Taylor said, holding them out. “Yoga pants or sweatpants.”
“The black ones are fine,” Charlotte said, taking the yoga pants. The fabric felt weightless against her palms, carrying the clean scent of lavender laundry soap. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”
“Bathroom is second door on the left down the hall,” Taylor said. “Before you go change, can I get you a drink? I’ve got wine, tea, water, a couple beers?”
“Whatever you’re having is fine with me,” Charlotte said.
She turned and walked down the short hallway into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her until the latch clicked.
Charlotte unbuttoned her wool blazer, slid her arms out of the heavy sleeves, and draped it over the small vanity chair.
She unbuckled her belt, stepped out of her damp slacks, and pulled on the black yoga pants.
The thin fabric hugged her skin, smoothing over her hips with a supple closeness that felt almost scandalous.
She didn’t own a pair of pants like this, not even for around the house, and couldn’t imagine wearing them in public.
Turning toward the mirror, she saw how ruthlessly the material outlined every curve from behind.
She didn’t try to pull the dark fabric higher over her waist. Instead, she shifted her weight, taking in the way the thin stretch mapped the curve of her rear and the long, uninterrupted line of her hips.
Taylor wasn’t being polite. A woman like that, young and striking and moving through the world with an effortless grace, didn’t invite a stranger into her home out of charity.
Taylor wanted her. The truth hit the back of Charlotte’s ribs with a sharp, quiet thrum of pure satisfaction, spreading outward until her skin tingled beneath her clothes.
Charlotte looked up, meeting her own gaze in the mirror.
Her blond hair hung in windblown tangles across her shoulders, wild from the ocean breeze, but her face wasn’t the pale, tired mask that usually greeted her at the end of a long workday.
Warm color hummed beneath her skin. Her mouth still felt tender from the press of Taylor’s lips on the beach, the memory surging back with sudden, vivid clarity.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt wanted like this.
The last few years with Diane had been careful and polite, filled with touches that gradually hollowed her out.
But standing under the bathroom light, the borrowed waistband hugging her hip and the taste of ocean salt lingering on her lips, a sudden, fierce vitality stirred beneath her ribs.
She ran a hand through her hair. The messy, unscripted reflection looking back at her felt far more honest than the curated image she presented to her students every morning.
She wasn’t Professor Reid right now. She was simply an attractive woman. She was desired, and she was going to let herself feel every bit of it without analyzing the consequences.
Enjoying tonight didn’t mean committing to anything. She wasn’t signing a lease. She wasn’t promising a future or inviting chaos into her structured life. It was just a night to enjoy herself.
She was allowed to have one.
She smoothed her hands down her front. She hung up her damp slacks across the shower rail, and left her blazer folded on the edge of the sink, taking one last look in the mirror before opening the door.