Chapter 18 #3
My stomach flips.
His dark eyes dark focus on my lips. “But keep me talking, Adams… and I’ll make you want to kiss me.”
Shit.
I grip my glass a little tighter. “That’s cocky,” I murmur, hoping my voice doesn’t betray me.
“It’s confidence.” His gaze drops to neckline of my shirt. “Which, for the record, is not compensation.”
“Is this your idea of foreplay?” I ask.
“No. That would involve a lot more touching.”
My pulse stumbles. My knees go warm.
We fall quiet. Not awkward. Not forced. Just still.
The warmth of our booth wraps around us like a bubble—one I’m not ready to pop. The candle has burned down low, the dregs of our wine gone warm, and the air between us shifts again. Less barbed, more magnetic.
Tracing the rim of my glass with a finger, I glance out the window, where the street flows with the pulse of a city winding down.
“I should probably head home,” I say finally, though my voice is soft, reluctant.
Nolan doesn’t move. He watches me.
“But…” I glance back at him, mouth quirking, “I don’t really want to walk alone.”
That earns me a spark in his eyes. His spine straightens slightly. “I’ll walk you home, Adams.”
I nod, wondering about what might happen when we reach my stoop again. Will he try to kiss me? Do I want him to?
Neither of us says anything as he leaves a few bills on the table. I don’t miss how his palm brushes the small of my back as we weave through the tables and out into the night.
Outside is quiet, the city mellowing into that late-evening lull where even the taxis seem to glide softer. Summer heat curls between us. The sidewalk glows under the low buzz of amber street lamps, long shadows falling into step beside us.
We don’t rush.
We’re not in a hurry.
We pause at the crosswalk at the end of the block, where the breeze lifts my hair and the sounds of laughter drift from the patio behind us. For a moment, it’s just us.
Nolan glances down at me, one hand slides into the pocket of those sinfully loose shorts. Boxers? Briefs? Or nothing? Like me.
His eyes drop to my mouth, and I swear he’s about to say something I might not be ready for when a voice slices through the quiet.
“Rorie?”
I freeze at the sound of my name, turning slowly, already regretting it.
My ex, Quinn, walks toward us, hand intertwined with a woman who looks like she was styled straight off a Pinterest wedding board—beachy waves cascading over her shoulders, glowy skin, and teeth so white they practically have their own sponsorship deal.
And glinting under the streetlamp, bold and bright, a diamond so big it has its own gravitational pull.
The breath leaves my lungs in a stupid little gasp I don’t manage to catch in time.
Three months.
That’s how long it’s been since Quinn walked out of my life. Since he told me he couldn’t be what I needed anymore. That my grief was too heavy. That loving me felt more like drowning.
And now he’s here.
Grinning. Glowing. Hand-in-hand with his upgraded life. That’s a punch right to the center of my chest.
My mouth goes dry. My pulse skyrockets. I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I stand there like someone hit pause on my nervous system while the rest of the world keeps playing.
Nolan shifts beside me, a subtle, almost imperceptible movement. And when he steps in close without a word, it’s not nothing. It’s presence. Steady. Quiet. He knows I’m one breath away from falling apart and he chooses to be the breath that holds me together.
Quinn’s eyes lock on mine. For a second—a mere second–his smile falters.
Good.
I might look like I’m holding it together, but inside I’m collapsing. Not because I want him back. Because I want to understand how someone who once whispered promises into my ear could move on like I was a chapter he skipped by mistake.
Three months.
That’s all it took for him to trade in heartbreak for a hashtag engagement shoot.
Fuck. That.
My jaw tightens. My chin lifts.
“Hey,” I say, and it comes out too light, too airy. Like I’ve inhaled helium. “Hi, Quinn.”
He looks… a bit pompous. That smile curving his lips is a mask, and I know it because I used to watch him rehearse it in the mirror before meetings.
“This is Paisley.” He lifts her hand with theatrical flair, and the diamond on her ring finger glints in the light like a blade, ready to be shoved straight through my heart. “My fiancée.”
“Oh, wow. Congratulations,” I manage, though it tastes like lemon peel and bile. “That’s… really great.”
Paisley offers me a polite, noncommittal smile—the kind you give someone right before you judge their entire outfit. “We just got back from a weekend in Montauk. He proposed on the cliffs at sunset.”
Because of course he did.
Next to me, Nolan is a wolf catching the scent of something off. He clocks the entire exchange with terrifying efficiency. A strong arm snakes around my waist in one slow, deliberate motion. I look up at him. He winks, and that dimple I refuse to find charming makes a dangerous appearance.
My heart flips. Nolan somehow felt the ground shift beneath me and he stepped in without a word, and that’s unwinding something tight in my chest, tugging at threads I thought I’d knotted down.
I look up at him. He winks.
This infuriating, impossible man, is doing things to my resolve. He’s supposed to be the enemy.
But all I can think is—
God, it would be so easy to fall for you.
“Amazing,” I say to Paisley, because I don’t know where else to aim the awkwardness. “Well, we were just heading home.”
Quinn’s eyes narrow with curiosity as they size up Nolan. “So… you’re together?”
Nolan doesn’t hesitate. He slides his hand from my waist, extends it toward Quinn like he’s closing a deal.
“Nolan Rhodes,” he says. Cool. Collected, flat enough to be convincing. “We were grabbing drinks. Celebrating.”
“Celebrating?” Quinn repeats, his expression faltering.
Nolan’s smile curls, amused. “Her brilliance. My luck. The beginning of her ‘no more mediocre men’ era.”
Paisley blinks.
I cough into my sleeve to hide my laugh. Nolan’s hand slips into mine as though it’s always belonged there, and I let him.
Quinn shifts. “Well. Glad you found someone who can… handle your life.”
That hits harder than I’m ready for. He means it. That passive-aggressive dig cloaked in civility. Your grief. Your mess. Your weight. The things he couldn’t carry.
Nolan hears it because his fingers tense slightly. His head tilts. He doesn’t say anything right away, but there’s a shift behind his eyes.
“So, how’d you two meet?” Quinn asks, like he cares. His fiance’s attention bounces between all of us.
“Oh, we um–”
“Work together,” Nolan cuts in. “Got paired up on a special project.” And then his voice drops an octave, “You ready to go home and… debrief, honey?”
My brows lift.
Nolan’s mouth grazes the shell of my ear. “I’ve got visuals. Charts. Graphs. And a very thorough presentation planned. Hands-on demonstration included. You’ll want to take notes.”
Playing along, I elbow him. “Keep it in your pants…honey.”
But I’m smiling.
And I don’t pull away.
Quinn stares for a moment longer, looking like he wants to say something, or defend himself. Maybe ask why I’m glowing in a way I never did with him.
But instead, he says, “Well, nice running into you, Rorie.”
“You too,” I lie with alarming ease. “Congrats, again.”
“Bye.” Paisley’s heels clack against the pavement as they turn away.
When the two love birds disappear into the night, Nolan’s hand slips from mine and I swear he’s fighting the urge to ask me exactly what that was about.
I beat him to it. “Don’t.”
His mouth quirks. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“Liar.”
“You’re welcome, by the way.” Voice silk and trouble. “And FYI, you now owe me another Cabernet and Confessions night. Strictly professional, of course. So you can explain who the hell that guy was.”
“Definitely a story for another time,” I mutter.
“I’m holding you to it.”
We reach the corner and pause beneath the streetlight. Standing. Breathing. The silence between is full of desire. And unsaid things.
“I had fun,” he says.
“Honestly, me too.” I look down at the ground for a beat then back up at him.
“Hey, I want to say I’m sorry. For assuming you were a player.
And a flirt. A guy who’s only interested in quick and casual.
It was wrong of me to label you. And I could tell how much calling you a fuckboy bothered you back at the wine bar. ”
His hand finds mine, not a grab, not even a move. It’s the softest drag of skin across skin.
“Rorie?” he says.
“Yeah?”
His thumb skims the inside of my wrist. Light. Gentle. I meet his gaze, wary, but drawn in.
“Thank you for your apology, but so we’re clear…” Honey-colored eyes find mine. “When I touch you…” A rough knuckle grazes the side of my hand, a stroke so slow and sensual it makes my breath hitch. “It won’t be casual.”
The crosswalk light changes behind him—an unspoken cue to walk away.
I don’t.
A flood of reasons break open in my mind.
Like, why should I?
Because Quinn is somewhere, probably giving Paisley a recap of the woman he left mid-breakdown and how thrilled he is she’s thriving.
Because I just watched the man who swore I was too heavy to love flash a diamond like it was proof he’d been right all along.
Because Nolan Rhodes just looked at me like I’m not baggage but the whole damn destination.
Because I want—no, need—to remind myself I’m not the girl Quinn left behind.
I’m Rorie “The Reckoning” Adams.
My eyes meet Nolan’s, and different kind of energy hangs between us. Not a spark. Not a sizzle.
A crack.
Hairline, but one that means something’s about to split wide open, like a door creaking, daring me to walk through.
So I do.
One step.
One breath.
My fingers find the back of Nolan’s warm neck, solid, familiar in a way that makes no sense.
He stills. Blinks once. Again. A guarded look in his eyes flutters.
He doesn’t think I’ll do it.
Let’s show him he’s wrong.
Rising onto my toes, I press my mouth to his. No fanfare. No hesitation. Only heat and will and the heady rush of crossing a line I can’t uncross.
Hands cup my jaw, but Nolan doesn’t deepen the kiss. Doesn’t take over. He lets me lead. Lets me claim him.
The moment crackles.
My mouth surges with urgency and Nolan groans against my lips like I’ve set him on fire. The sound makes me lose my balance. It’s a low, deep exhale as though he’s been holding his breath for days and I’m the thing that finally lets him breathe.
My fingers fist the front of his shirt, tugging him closer, needing more—needing him.
But Nolan stays slow. His lips move like he’s memorizing mine, a study in self-control. Every brush is measured, purposeful, a promise, not a possession.
His mouth doesn’t demand—it asks.
It listens.
It learns.
His lips map the shape of mine, tracing them with the barest hint of tongue—tentative, teasing, coaxing my mouth open. It’s so gentle it guts me. I melt, completely, knees softening as the world around us fades out. No traffic. No city noise. Just us.
And this kiss.
One hand slides to my waist, anchoring me with that impossible steadiness of his, and the proof of how badly he wants more nudges into me. He’s holding himself back. And somehow, that restraint makes everything burn hotter.
Tilting my head, I chase him, deepening the kiss in tiny, fragile increments, like we’re both afraid to break it. Like if we move too fast, it might shatter.
When I finally do pull back, breathless, and aching, my lips swollen, my chest a riot, Nolan doesn’t say a word.
Dark, heavy-lidded eyes watch me. We’ve undone something in each other.
Heart thundering, I take a shaky breath and step back.
His hand lifts mine again, he presses a second kiss to the knuckles. A little smug. A little reverent. All heat.
“Sleep well, Adams.” He turns and walks away.
My mouth is still tingling. Nolan’s kiss carved itself into me, like it knew it was meant to stay.
What am I supposed to do with that?