Chapter 28
Andi
For the rest of July, we settle into as much of a routine as we can with our schedules.
We do lunch together so we can keep up appearances.
We attend a coworker’s going-away party.
Our relationship is so believable, even Ann, the head chef for the Nichols family, corners me in the staff kitchen one day to ask whether I can introduce her to Nolan’s CPO coworkers.
In our off-time, we’ll take walks, grab takeout, watch TV together. Nolan is also keen on going to the rescue farm to see Cody, so we make sure to go at least once a week.
It’s wildly adorable, seeing Nolan with Cody, with his peach fuzz and scrawny little body. But the two of them have developed a close bond. In fact, Nolan even bought him a soft blanket to sleep with at night, a sweater (in case he gets cold), and some chew toys.
Nolan also keeps offering to let me come to Costco with him.
I never thought I’d ever look forward to grocery shopping.
Maybe because it was a stark reminder I was alone, shopping for one.
Sure, Nolan and I aren’t actually together, but it’s nice to have someone to share your cart with, someone to help you find random ingredients, someone to convince you to get the extra tub of ice cream you’ve been eyeing.
Today is Eric and Gretchen’s staff appreciation barbecue, which is being held at the NCC River House, a heritage building with a public dock for swimming on the Ottawa River.
It’s a gorgeous wooded location, though neither of us actually swims or fully enjoys the day, because he’s doing security while I’m caught up with logistics—coordinating food, overseeing entertainment, and making sure everything runs smoothly.
It’s become a more arduous task than normal, because today, Eric and Gretchen aren’t speaking.
Gretchen didn’t tell me much, aside from calling him “that man.” They spend most of the afternoon on opposite sides of the docks, asking me and Eric’s assistant to play telephone all day over trivial things, like condiments for the barbecue food.
I’m exhausted by the time everyone filters out at the end of the day, so I’m extra grateful when Nolan offers to stay and help with the cleanup.
“Want to take a dip before we go?” he asks, tilting his head back to the water with a playful grin. The sun has just set and the lake is still, almost glass-like.
It’s tempting, though there’s one huge problem. “I don’t have my bathing suit.”
He arrows me an impish look. “You don’t need a bathing suit to swim. Come on.”
I count the seconds, saying a silent prayer as he drops his tie, jacket, dress shirt, trousers, socks, and shoes on the dock. I gape at his perfectly honed pectorals, layered with dense muscle over muscle. A lump forms in my throat when he gets to his briefs.
Only, I barely catch a glimpse before he’s in the water with a massive splash that breaks the stillness.
A bra and underwear are the same thing as a bikini, I remind myself, unzipping my dress.
His searing gaze burns a trail from my eyes, down my breasts, over the valley of my stomach, and down before he seemingly snaps out of it. “The water’s great. Really warm!” he calls out.
I take his word for it. With a running leap, I plunge in. Holy shit. It’s ice-cold. “You liar,” I say, splashing him. “It’s freezing.”
He tosses his head back in a carefree laugh, which echoes across the lake. “I forgot to mention that I did underwater diving training in Antarctica. My idea of warm is probably skewed.”
I snort, my body adjusting as the water gradually becomes more bearable, enveloping me like a sheet of chilled silk. “See any penguins?”
“Of course. And walruses. They’re pretty friendly, actually.”
I chuckle, floating on my back next to him. “How many oceans have you swum in, Mr. Antarctic Diver?”
He pauses, doing the mental math. “All of them, except for the Indian Ocean, I think.”
I let out a whistle, both impressed and also entirely unable to imagine living that kind of life. I can only imagine how stifling a boring government city must feel for him. How much he must miss traveling to far-off, far more exciting places than here.
“Do you think you ever want a home? A permanent one?” I dare to ask, regret clawing its way up my throat instantly.
It’s probably too personal a question, even though I already know the answer.
Nolan wants thrilling new experiences, adventure, unpredictability, not the same old routine every day, in bed by ten. He wants more than I could ever offer.
“I don’t know. It’s hard to imagine.” He wades a little closer, shaking the beads of water from his face. The droplets cling to his beard, sparkling in the moonlight.
“Understandable,” I say, swallowing as the distance between us closes. “Especially if you haven’t stayed in one place in so many years.”
“I used to, though. When I was a kid. There was actually a house at the end of my grandma’s street that I loved,” he tells me, his tone tinged with nostalgia.
“What was it like?”
“Em and I called it the yellow house, because it was the only house on the street with colored siding. All the other houses were brick. It had this white front porch that was always overflowing with flowers in the spring and summer, and covered with leaves in the fall. Every night, the lights would be on and they’d have the fireplace going in the living room.
I think a couple lived there, though I never met them. ”
I close my eyes and imagine the warm, inviting glow on a snowy winter night. “That sounds magical.” I don’t miss the way the moonlight catches his lips.
“It was magical,” he continues. “There was this little trail next to the house that led to a forest with a ravine. My sister and I used to spend hours in that forest, running wild, playing hide-and-seek, fishing, and catching frogs. In the winter all the neighborhood kids would skate on the frozen water. Whenever I was back there, I didn’t have to think about anything else.
I didn’t worry about my mom, or where Em and I would end up next. ”
“Have you been back since?” I ask gently.
“No, not since long before my grandma died. I actually forgot about the house until just now when you asked.” He pauses, expression growing forlorn at the bittersweet memory. “How about you? What’s your dream home?”
“I’ve never thought that far ahead,” I admit. “It’s funny. When I was writing all the time, I’d think about my characters’ futures, mapping out their lives in vivid detail. But I never did the same for myself. I guess I’ve always lived to get through the day, the week, the next project.”
“Live to get through,” he repeats, as though tasting the words.
“I’m fully aware of how sad that sounds.”
He shakes his head, his eyes latching on to mine. “No. I get it. The future is scary.”
“It is. I don’t even know what I want anymore.” Being with someone, sharing my life with someone, is overwhelming. But being completely alone suddenly doesn’t sound as appealing as it used to.
“Maybe,” he says, voice calm and steady, “you could start with slowing down. Living in the moment. It might help you figure out what you really want.” He gestures around us, as though asking me to take it all in.
Even in the moonlight, it’s hard to see anything except the blackness of our immediate surroundings.
I do absorb it all. The glow of our skin, contrasting the cool darkness of the water lapping against us. The chirp of a distant bullfrog. For the briefest of moments, everything fades around us, aglow.
“Is it working?” he whispers.
I nod, a small smile tugging at my lips as the tension melts away into the water. “Kind of.” Truthfully, I’m not sure I’m able to see past what’s directly in front of me. Him. I don’t say that part out loud. A soft breeze blows over us, and my teeth begin to chatter.
“You’re freezing, aren’t you?”
“No,” I say, because under his gaze, I feel the opposite. I wade a little closer and so does he.
“Come here,” he says gently, his eyes like beacons, as though we weren’t already floating toward each other.
It’s probably a bad idea, touching him. I have half a mind to backstroke away before it’s too late, but when my leg accidentally brushes against his side, any remaining reservation splinters away.
I hook my arms around his broad shoulders, letting my body dangle below until he brings me in close, my chest pressed to his. The soft waves crash against us, knocking my hips against his at a steady, rhythmic pace, until the friction becomes unbearable.
When he pulls back to study my face, I know he feels it, too. The charge between us, a spark away from igniting. “Fuck,” he whispers, eyes on fire. “You have no idea how badly I want to kiss you right now.”
“I want you to,” I whisper back.
He holds my gaze for a beat longer than normal. His eyes flick to my lips, confirming he wants to kiss me. We both move closer, the distance between us closing until our breaths mingle. A swell of heat pools in between my legs, and for once, I’m not thinking. I’m doing.
I hinge forward and we practically collide. His hand drifts to the small of my back, tilting me closer and closer until our lips catch. It’s soft, delicate, testing.
“Is this okay?” he rasps, feathering a couple slow kisses along my jaw and down my neck. Holy shit.
I mumble something that sounds like a cross between “fuck” and “yes,” not that it fully captures the way I’m feeling.
He pauses against my lips. “Are you sure? I didn’t hear you.”
“Don’t stop,” I order authoritatively, pressing a soft nibble into the bottom of his lip, kissing away the pearl-like water droplet hanging there.
In response, he makes a low, guttural sound at the back of his throat that lights a match within me, within both of us.
He wraps his arms under my ass and hoists my legs tight around his waist. His tongue slides hungrily against mine, dropping down to my neck, skimming my shoulders.
He tilts his waist toward me, and I arch against something heavy pressing into my lower stomach.
The kiss deepens until there’s absolutely no space, no water between us.
It’s lip biting, tongues colliding, him pulling me so flush against him, I could combust. It’s commanding yet desperate all at once, the way we’re hungry for each other, as though we’ve both wanted this for longer than we’d like to admit. Or at least I have.
A pulse drops from my stomach to between my legs.
I smooth my palms over the hard ridges of his shoulders to stabilize myself.
The water makes it easy to roll my hips against him in a ravenous frenzy.
I feel like I’m in some sort of Nolan-induced trance, and I never want to snap out of it. No one has ever kissed me like this.
His hands work their way from the small of my back up under my bra. He runs the pads of his fingertips up and down my thighs, touching me the way I’ve only ever fantasized about in my books.
My breath hitches when his hands reach my ass, cupping it hard, using it to set the pace.
“That’s it, sweetheart. Just like that, nice and slow.
” He arches himself back to me, planting kisses all the way down my throat, stopping at the base of my ear before slamming his mouth back to mine.
His fingers play with the lacy hem of my panties, and I’m seriously regretting not wearing a thong—not that he seems to care or notice.
“That feels so good,” I whisper. Even in the water, the friction is about to set me ablaze, so much so, an embarrassingly loud moan rockets out of me, reverberating across the lake.
I’ve never been particularly vocal or boisterous while being intimate with other men, but there’s something about Nolan that makes me feel like another person entirely.
It feels like an otherworldly experience, getting out of my head, letting my body take the lead.
Because I’ve never, ever let myself let go like this, with anyone.
“Fuck. The way you sound.” His thumb presses deeper under the hem, followed by another finger, just barely grazing me, almost teasing as he works his fingers closer and closer to my clit.
I rake my fingers over his chest, up to his neck, holding him close, letting myself feel every single sensation, letting myself moan into his ear as loud as I need to.
Apparently, he loves it, because he kisses me even harder. It’s wet. It’s needy. It’s electric. And then he nearly loses it, bucking in a frantic pace against me. This is officially the hottest moment of my life.
I’m utterly throbbing, desperate for him to touch me, ready to beg for release.
A low buzzing sound on the dock yanks us out of the moment. His phone.
His gaze snaps up. He shifts me off him, his breath coming in ragged bursts as he scrambles to hoist himself onto the dock to check the screen. “I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, voice strained. “Shit. It’s my neighbor. Hold on.”
Dripping wet, he takes quick, unsteady steps up the dock, his usually smooth movements now sharp with urgency. I follow him, climbing the ladder as fast as I can.
Shit. Is she okay? I’ll be home in half an hour. Leaving now.
He rushes back to me, his shoulders rigid, his eyes wide with a mixture of guilt and unmistakable worry. “Andi, I’m really sorry. I have to go. Now.”
“What’s wrong?” I ask, wringing water from my hair, which is plastered to my face in a complete sopping mess.
“It’s my mom.”