Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Ifumbled with the lock to my front door. My dad kept promising he was going to fix it, but I wasn’t holding my breath for that day.
Dani blew into her gloveless hands and peered up at the three-story structure. “Am I hallucinating, or is this your parents’ place?”
Triple-deckers in Charlestown tended to all look alike, but during college Dani had been a guest at family dinners with enough frequency that it made sense she would have recalled the building.
“Good memory,” I remarked. “They’re on the third floor. I’m renting the first floor just until I find something else.”
“God,” she muttered, still looking up at the building. “This really takes me back.”
I finally managed to unlock the front door and pushed inside.
“Come in,” I encouraged.
Dani stamped her feet on the welcome mat before stepping inside. “What’s up with the boxes?”
I still had unopened moving boxes crowding the front entryway, and most of my furniture was in a storage container across town. It hadn’t made sense to unpack my things only to move them to another apartment, hopefully, in a few months time.
I absently touched my fingers to one of the still-sealed boxes. “I’m only at my parents’ place temporarily,” I said, “so it didn’t make sense to unpack everything unless I was using it.”
“But Boston is permanent, right? Or are you still hunting for the next gig?”
Her features pinched with a concerned look—like she was only just realizing that even though she planned on sticking around that it might not have been in my plans.
“This is where I want to be,” I said. “I can’t guarantee the network will keep me on indefinitely, but Boston is home.”
“Okay. Good.”
My stomach dipped, but I blamed it on low blood sugar rather than her reaction.
“Are you hungry?” I blurted out.
“I don’t know. Have you gone grocery shopping yet?” Dani glanced out the front window where the blizzard winds had only picked up. “‘Cause I’m not making someone deliver us food in this.”
I didn’t answer right away, which was answer enough.
Dani turned slowly back toward me, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Reese.”
“I have food,” I said defensively.
“Define food.”
I slipped past her and into the kitchen. Dani followed, shedding her jacket and the game jersey she’d worn to camp. She tossed them over the back of an upholstered easy chair like she owned the place.
I opened the fridge and immediately wished I hadn’t. There was a half-used carton of eggs, milk, a questionable bag of spinach, a bottle of hot sauce, and what might have been leftover takeout that I had no memory of ordering.
Dani leaned over my shoulder. “This is bleak.”
I ignored her and opened a cabinet. Pasta. That was promising. Another cabinet—canned tomatoes, pancake mix, a bag of rice, and peanut butter.
Dani made a thoughtful noise behind me.
“This feels like an episode of Chopped,” she said. “Your basket ingredients are eggs, expired spinach, and carbohydrates.”
I spun to face her. “First of all, the spinach is not expired.”
She pulled the bag out of the fridge and checked the date.
“Reese!” She gasped like the spinach had personally offended her.
“It’s fine,” I insisted.
“It is not fine.”
I snatched the bag back from her. “If we cook it, it cancels out the expiration.”
“That’s not how food safety works.”
“It is tonight.”
Dani laughed under her breath. “Alright. Step aside.”
“Oh, absolutely not,” I said. “This is my kitchen.”
“Your kitchen with no food.”
“I have pasta,” I countered.
“And?”
“And …” I verbally scrambled, “sauce-adjacent ingredients.”
Dani reached for a pan and set it on the stove with such domestic familiarity that something in my chest shifted.
“No offense,” she said, continuing to gather ingredients and utensils, “but I can’t afford food poisoning. It’s the push toward the playoffs, remember?”
I folded my arms across my chest. “So I need to let you cook because you think I might poison you?”
Dani batted her eyelashes. “Just trust me.”
“Like your instincts?” I shot back.
Her mouth curved immediately. “Exactly.”
I pointed a finger at her. “Don’t start.”
She just smiled and turned back to the stove.
“Okay,” she said, glancing between the ingredients spread across the counter. “We’ve got pasta, eggs, cheese—please tell me that cheese is still good.”
I checked the packaging. “It’s fine.”
“‘Fine’ according to you or actual reality?”
“Dani.”
“Alright, alright.” She grabbed a pot and filled it with water. “We’re doing some kind of carbonara situation.”
“With hot sauce?” I asked.
She paused and looked thoughtful. “I’m not ruling it out.”
I huffed out a laugh despite myself.
Dinner, somehow, turned out better than it had any right to.
The pasta was slightly overcooked, the sauce was improvised, and Dani insisted on adding a dash of hot sauce that I wasn’t convinced belonged there—but it was warm, and it was filling, and we ate it standing at the kitchen peninsula, shoulders bumping every so often.
Outside, the storm had only gotten worse. Wind rattled the windows hard enough to make the glass shudder, and snow piled up faster than the plows could keep up with. The streetlights had gone hazy, swallowed by the white.
Dani drifted toward the window, peering out. “Yep,” she concluded. “I’m not driving in that.”
I leaned back against the counter, trying not to look too relieved. “Good call.”
She turned to look at me, one eyebrow raised.
“Pajamas,” I said, a little too quickly.
Her mouth twitched, but she didn’t comment.
I crossed the room and dropped to a crouch in front of a half-open box. I dug through it for a second before coming up with something soft and familiar.
“Here,” I said, tossing her a sweatshirt.
Dani caught it easily, but instead of pulling it on, she stilled, fingers tightening slightly in the fabric. She looked up at me, a slow grin spreading across her face.
“No way.”
“What?”
“This is mine,” she said, holding it up between us. “From college. I wondered where this went.”
“Correction,” I said, pushing back to my feet. “It’s mine now.”
She laughed and pulled it over her head in one smooth motion. Her undershirt rode up just enough that I caught a brief, unfair glimpse of toned abs and the sharp lines of her obliques before the fabric fell back into place.
“Still fits,” she said, sounding entirely too pleased with herself.
I rolled my eyes, even as heat crept up the back of my neck. “Not everyone can keep the same body they had at 22, Callahan.”
It only made the next part harder. Changing clothes in front of her shouldn’t have felt like a big deal. It hadn’t been, once. But that had been years ago, and things were different now—or at least I was.
Still, I didn’t want to make it into something it wasn’t by disappearing into the bathroom.
I turned slightly away instead, tugging my sweater over my head, suddenly aware of every movement, every inch of exposed skin as I reached for a t-shirt.
I’d been naked with Dani more times than I could count, but that felt like a lifetime ago. My body wasn’t the same. Breasts a little fuller, a little softer. Hips wider. Thighs thicker. A softness at my stomach I didn’t remember having back then.
“It’s not exactly a revenge body,” I muttered, more to fill the silence than anything else. “You might not be aware of this, but most people’s bodies change after college.”
Dani didn’t laugh.
“I love your body,” she said. “I didn’t think it was possible for someone to get sexier.”
I glanced up before I could stop myself.
The way she was looking at me—steady, intent, like she meant every word—made something in my chest pull tight.
I broke eye contact first, reaching for the blanket on the couch if only to give my hands something to do. “We’re only going to sleep,” I insisted. “No funny business.”
“No funny business,” she echoed.
Dani glanced around the apartment. “Uh … Reese?”
“What?”
“You do have a bed, right?”
I grimaced and gestured toward the couch. “It’s a pull-out.”
Dani stared at it. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m only living here temporarily!” I squeaked defensively.
She laughed under her breath. “Okay.”
We wrestled the hide-a-bed open together, the frame creaking loudly in protest as we tugged it out.
The mattress unfolded with a stubborn lurch, sheets half-tangled from the last time it had been used.
Recently I’d gotten lazy and hadn’t been using the foldable bed.
With it only being me, some nights I’d just slept on it as a couch.
“Wow,” Dani chuckled. “Luxury accommodations.”
“Keep it up, Callahan, and I’ll make you drive home,” I shot back, even though we both knew that wasn’t happening.
She just laughed, dropping onto the edge of the mattress to smooth out the sheets.
“We’re only going to sleep,” I warned, grabbing the blanket and climbing onto my side of the bed.
“No funny business,” she repeated, far too easily.
The apartment was quiet except for the ice and wind scraping against the windows. I had the blanket tucked around me, trying to focus on sleep, but every little sound—her soft breathing, the faint rustle of her sweatshirt as she shifted—made my chest tighten.
I caught a whiff of her shampoo as she leaned forward to pull the blanket tighter around her shoulders. My fingers twitched, almost reaching out, but I stopped myself.
Sleep. Just sleep.
“You still hog the blankets,” she murmured, eyes half-lidded in the dim light.
“Not true,” I countered softly, adjusting mine. “I just don’t like to be cold.”
She snorted quietly. “And now you’re still cold. Some things never change.”
I wanted to argue, but I just listened to the sound of her voice, that familiar lilt that could make my knees weak even now. My eyes followed the curve of her shoulder, the small gap where the sweatshirt didn’t quite cover, and I swallowed against the sudden lump in my throat.
Dani shifted again, a small sigh escaping her lips, and I felt an ache spread through me, a mix of memory and want. My hands itched to brush a stray lock of hair from her face, to trace her jawline, to just—be close.
“You okay?” she asked softly, as if she’d read the tension in my posture.
I laughed quietly, more like a breath than a sound. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” she said. Her voice was teasing, but gentle. “You’re thinking too much. You always did.”
“Some things never change,” I muttered, echoing her words.
She turned slightly toward me, one knee bent under the blanket, so close I could feel the warmth radiating from her. My heart stuttered. Memories and desire twisted together, tight and confusing.
“You know,” she said, her tone low, almost a whisper, “I could spoon you, just until you’re warm enough. Just so we’d both get some sleep.”
I froze, the blanket bunched in my hands. Don’t. Don’t let this happen.
“We’re only sleeping,” I said, my voice firmer than I felt. “That’s the rule.”
Her grin softened, eyes glimmering in the lamplight. “I know,” she said quietly, almost reverently. “I just thought I’d mention it.”
The ache didn’t go away. The yearning didn’t subside. I wanted her closer, wanted the warmth and the weight and the familiarity—but I stayed put, curling a little tighter under my blanket, pretending that I wasn’t acutely aware of every inch between us.
“Goodnight, Callahan,” I said, my voice small.
“Goodnight, Marlowe,” she whispered back.