Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
“Julia!” he says, too excited. He’s somewhere loud. It’s hard to hear him over the background noise. “Ms. Thomas.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m at The Anchor. Backroom, of course,” he slurs his words slightly. “How’s Noah?”
“Are you drunk?”
A bar full of people with a drunk celebrity hidden in the back is not the most ideal situation.
“Where’s Tony?”
“No! Not drunk, no. Just tipsy,” he says, swaying through the word. “I was about to walk home. I can walk straight. I tried.”
If he’s tried, that’s enough evidence that he shouldn’t.
“I’m on my way,” I tell him, sliding into my shoes. “Don’t move.”
I throw on my black trench coat over my pajamas and pray this is a ten-minute operation.
The taxi takes forever, traffic holding us back.
By the time I reach The Anchor, it’s half past twelve.
The entrance is swarmed with groups of people out for a smoke. I sprint from the car, hoping no one clocks my fuzzy socks.
Tony’s behind the bar, wrist-deep in cocktails for a group of girls. He catches my eye, nods, and mouths Good luck.
I walk into the backroom to find Harrison sitting on the floor, beer in hand.
“Josh,” I sigh, going over to him and helping him up off the floor.
“I’m good,” he mumbles, a bit wobbly. “Where’s Noah?”
“Gone.”
“Finally.”
“Why are you even here?” I ask.
“When I left your place, I was mad. Started walking. Didn’t want to go home, so I came here instead.”
“You and this backroom need a break,” I tell him. “Let’s go.”
I half-drag him outside. The taxi is still waiting, thank god.
I don’t know Harrison’s address, nor do I think it’s the best idea for a random driver to take us there. Making a quick decision, I ask him to drop us off where I was picked up.
“You’ve got a keeper,” he says to Harrison. “She came to rescue you with her pajamas still on. Not many women would do that.”
My cheeks flush. “It’s not a big deal.”
“I know she’s a keeper,” Harrison replies, proud and slurring. “I’m working on it.”
He turns to look at me. “You’re wearing pajamas?”
“I couldn’t be bothered to get dressed up.”
He shrugs, resting on my shoulder. “You make it work,” he says. “No matter what you have on, you always look beautiful.”
“Will you be fine on the couch?” I ask as we step inside.
“More than fine.”
“Okay. Let me find you a blanket,” I tell him. “Make yourself at home.”
I go to my room and grab the spare blanket from the closet. No extra pillows. I hesitate, then take one of mine.
When I come back, Harrison’s almost completely undressed. Pants undone, hanging loose on his waist, black boxers peeking out just enough. Shirt’s gone too. His golden skin is on display. Muscles tighten with every movement.
I freeze. Then cover my eyes with one hand and thrust the blanket at him. It should be illegal for someone to look that good under bad lighting. I could win a Sony World Photography Award for those abs alone.
“Nothing you haven’t seen before.”
True. Except real-life Harrison beats screen-Harrison ten times over.
Those few seconds were enough for his body to be burnt into my memory. Every line, every curve, now completely visible when I close my eyes.
It doesn’t take long to fall asleep knowing Harrison is in the other room. Lately, my dreams have been a montage of him—his smile, his touch... Tonight, I’m flooded with images of him in my bed. Clothes forgotten. I’m his for the taking.
I wake up covered in sweat. My heart is pounding. My sheets are bundled up at the foot of the bed.
Well, this is a first.
It’s eight a.m., and, except for the creak of my bedframe, the apartment is quiet. Did he leave? I tiptoe to the living room and peek around the corner. He’s still sprawled across the couch like a Calvin Klein ad. The sun drapes over him, making his skin glimmer.
My stomach rumbles—vengeance for skipping dinner. I move into the kitchen as quietly as possible. I’m met with an almost empty pantry. Bread but no butter. Two lonely eggs. And worst of all, no coffee left.
Luckily, there’s a corner shop a block away that opens on Sunday mornings, so I throw on a comfortable set of black leggings and a zip-up jacket. Pajamas in public is a one-time event.
Sneaking out in broad daylight feels like I’m doing the dreaded walk of shame. Minus the actual shame, because I did not get laid last night. Unfortunately.
It’s chilly. The sun peeks from through the clouds in a way that makes a beautiful shot.
A puddle near the curb catches the light, shimmering against the asphalt.
Instinct kicks in, and this time I don’t second-guess it.
I pull out my phone and snap the photo. It’s not perfect, but for the first time in a long time, I don’t care.
Maybe it’s the crisp air. Maybe it’s Harrison. Or maybe it’s what being free from Noah feels like.
I power walk to the store, knowing I don’t have much time before he wakes up. He delivered breakfast to me once, seems fair I showcase my limited cooking abilities.
Aside from the quiet taxi ride last night, nothing much happened. We haven’t talked about the kiss or the fact that we were about to spend the night in a completely different way than we ended up doing.
After Noah’s perfect performance of his character, I’m even more sure now that I deserve better. At the very least—I deserve some fun.
When I walk back in, the couch is empty. The blanket is nicely folded. His clothes are hanging from the back, and I hear the shower running.
He’s in my shower. Naked. With nothing between us but a thin wall and my self-control.
I shake my head. Get a grip. Do not picture anything.
I busy myself in the kitchen to avoid thinking about my current circumstances. Coffee goes on, and eggs start scrambling. Surely no one hates scrambled eggs, right?
The bathroom door opens. And I’m absolutely not okay.
Harrison comes out looking like a Greek god. The towel wraps around his waist like a present waiting to be opened.
I’m staring. I’m devouring him with my eyes, and I’m okay with that.
He blushes when he sees me, which is infuriatingly charming.
“I hope you don’t mind—I hopped in the shower,” he says, walking toward me. His voice is still thick with sleep, water dripping in tiny trails down his chest. “I thought you were still asleep.”
“I usually would be, but I woke up extra hungry today,” I say, refusing to tear my eyes away from him. A naughty smirk takes over my face. “I’m glad you’re making yourself at home.”
“Where’s Noah?” he asks, tilting his head. “Judging by the way you’re examining me, am I correct in assuming he’s out of the picture?”
“You are correct. I kicked him out last night—not long after you left,” I say, a little too proud of myself. “He’s out of my life. Hopefully forever.”
“Damn,” he murmurs, stepping closer until I can count the droplets on his skin. “Here I was, getting ready for some healthy competition.”
“And what exactly were you going to be competing for?” I ask, even though I already know. I want to hear him say it.
“Well. You. Of course.”
“You didn’t seem super ready to compete for anything last night,” I tease. “Except maybe a drinking contest.”
He laughs, pulling me into him with one arm—his other hand still gripping the towel like it’s hanging on for dear life.
“That’s because I wasn’t worried about losing.”
“Is that right?” I ask, hovering inches away from his lips. He smells like my shampoo, so exquisitely sweet.
We’re a match waiting for a spark. The second our lips touch again, all control is lost.
This is what I live for now: the catalog of Harrison’s kisses, each one different, each one more intense.
“You’re kissing me again,” he whispers against my lips.
He’s different this time. This version of him—raw and unrestrained—makes my knees weak. I want you, he’s saying with every move. He’s my undoing.
“You’re naked,” I retort.
“Almost,” he says, and then his mouth is back on mine, teeth dragging over my bottom lip.
I tangle my hands into his damp hair, tugging gently. I need more. More friction, more touch, more of him. I arch my back, desperate to feel as much of him as possible.
He bites my lip, coaxing a moan out of me. I’m rewarded by his free hand leaving a burning path down my side all the way to my ass. He squeezes playfully, and I groan.
“For fuck’s sake, Julia,” he growls into my mouth. “I could listen to you like this every day for the rest of my life.”
His voice is deeper than ever. Goosebumps break out across my skin. I deepen the kiss again—both of us chasing more.
He presses me against him, all of him. Hot, hard, and so very present.
I kiss my way down to his jaw, his throat, his chest. Biting and tasting as I go. My hands glide over his shoulders, down the ridges of his chest, feeling every muscle tense up as I go over it.
Just as my fingers find the seam of the towel, he grabs my wrists and lifts them over my head, pushing us back against the counter.
And then—
Sniff.
“Breakfast’s burning,” I mumble into his mouth.
He lets go of my hands, tosses the pan into the sink, and turns off the stove. I take advantage of the moment to peel off my jacket. Why am I still wearing so many clothes?
He picks me up and sets me on the counter like I weigh nothing.
“You are my breakfast,” he says, leaving a trail of kisses down my neck. I wrap my legs around him and tilt my head back, giving him more surface area to explore.
His hands are everywhere now. I can’t think straight. He gives me an open-mouthed kiss on my collarbone before biting down on the same spot. A hushed whimper escapes my lips, and I can feel him smile against my skin.
“Josh...” I moan. I can’t wait anymore.
I pull his face back to mine, desperate for his mouth. No one has ever kissed me like this. Everything before him has been a joke. No one is ever going to be as good.
“Bedroom. Now,” I mutter, trying to push myself off the counter.
He holds me still, not giving an inch.
“Not now. You have to learn how to be patient, love,” he whispers against me.