8. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
Annie
The weight of his hands on my waist sends my thoughts into a spiral. I can’t believe this is happening. His touch is searing, his lips firm against mine, and for a moment, all I can focus on is the way he’s making me feel—breathless, overwhelmed, and alive.
We stumble into his room, the door clicking shut behind us. The space is dimly lit, but I barely notice. My focus is on Cole, on the heat radiating from him, on the way his fingers tighten on my hips, pulling me closer.
This isn’t just anyone. It’s Cole Wagner.
Cold, distant Cole Wagner.
Impossibly gorgeous Cole Wagner.
My boss, Cole Wagner.
The thought jerks through me like a bolt of lightning, but then his lips trail down my neck, and I lose my grip on reality all over again.
My hands slide up his chest, feeling the firm planes of muscle beneath the fabric of his shirt. He’s tall and broad, his presence overwhelming in every way. I don’t know what I’m doing, only that I don’t want him to stop.
But I also know I need him to.
I’m shaking, my body pressed against his as he walks us toward the bed. My heart is pounding so hard it’s all I can hear, drowning out the sound of my own thoughts.
Thoughts that are screaming at me to stop.
“Wait,” I manage to whisper, but it’s barely audible, and he doesn’t hear me.
Or maybe he does, and he’s choosing to ignore it.
I should be stopping this. I know I should.
This is insane. Completely and utterly insane.
I’m a virgin.
The realization hits me like a bucket of cold water. Not that I’d forgotten—I hadn’t—but now it feels glaringly obvious.
How do I tell him that? Do I even tell him that?
He’s already pulling my shirt up, his hands moving with a confidence that makes my stomach flip. His lips are on my collarbone now, and a small, unbidden sound escapes me.
God, this is happening.
This is happening, and I have to stop it.
“Cole,” I say, louder this time, my hands on his chest, pushing lightly.
He pauses, his green eyes meeting mine, dark with something I can’t quite name.
“Annie?” he asks, his voice low, his breath warm against my skin.
“I—” My voice catches. I don’t know what to say. “I can’t. We can’t.”
His brow furrows, confusion flickering across his face.
“Why?” he asks, his hands still on my waist, holding me in place.
Because I don’t want my first time to be like this. Because I don’t want it to be with you—not when I’m just another notch on your bedpost, not when you’ll regret this tomorrow.
“I just can’t,” I say, my voice trembling. “I’m sorry.”
I expect him to be angry. Maybe even a little annoyed. And maybe he is, though if he is, he hides it well. He sets me back on the floor, and his hands drop from my waist as he takes a step back, his expression unreadable.
“Okay,” he says simply, his voice flat.
The coldness in his tone makes my chest tighten, and I can’t stop the flood of emotions—embarrassment, guilt, regret, relief—all hitting me at once.
“I should go,” I mumble, grabbing the edges of my blouse and pulling on it, yanking it down.
He doesn’t stop me, doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, watching me with those unreadable green eyes.
I don’t look back as I leave the room. My heart is still racing, but for an entirely different reason now.
By the time I reach my bedroom, my hands are shaking so badly I can barely turn the doorknob. Once inside, I lean back against the door, exhaling shakily.
What have I done?
What almost happened?
I press my palms to my face, trying to calm my breathing. My heart is still pounding, and my skin feels hot, like I’m on fire.
This is a disaster.
I can still feel the weight of his hands on my waist, the warmth of his lips on my skin, the feel of his fingers inside me, and the way his voice sounded when he said my name.
And I hate that a part of me wanted more. Wanted all of it.
***
I barely sleep.
When I do drift off, my dreams are a tangled mess of heat, guilt, and green eyes that pierce straight through me. I wake up more than once, my heart racing and my chest tight with regret. The memory of last night replays in my mind on a loop, every detail vivid and sharp .
What the hell was I thinking?
I made out with my boss, although it was certainly more than I had ever experienced before.
Robbie’s dad. And it wasn’t just some innocent kiss. Hell, it wasn’t even just a kiss. It was—God, it was so much more. My face burns as I remember his hands on me, in me, the way his lips moved against my skin, the sheer intensity of it all.
I bury my face in the pillow, groaning. What is wrong with me? And why did it feel so incredibly exciting? No one ever told me it would feel like that.
And then I think about how it ended. About how I stopped him, about how I bolted from his room like a coward. I didn’t even give him an explanation, just blurted out that I couldn’t do it and ran.
He must hate me. Or at the very least, he’s angry.
The idea sends a fresh wave of nausea rolling through me. I don’t know what to say to him now. How do I explain something I can barely understand myself? And what if he’s already decided I’m not worth the trouble and plans to fire me?
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the spiral of negative thoughts.
It doesn’t work.
When my alarm goes off, it’s almost a relief. Almost .
I groan as the alarm blares, echoing through the cavernous space of the bedroom. This isn’t how I envisioned my first real morning in this house.
Not that I’d spent much time imagining it, but if I had, I definitely wouldn’t have included the sleepless night filled with regret and panic, or the faintly sick feeling twisting my stomach.
Sighing, I reach over to shut off the alarm and sit up slowly, taking in my surroundings. My new room is everything you’d expect in a house like this. Spacious. Luxurious. Immaculate. But despite the elegance, it feels cold—like a hotel room, waiting for someone to leave their mark on it.
The walls are painted a soft cream, and the crown molding looks like something out of an architectural magazine, intricate and perfectly crafted.
My plush, king-sized bed sits against one wall, the linens crisp and impossibly soft, though I’d barely made a dent in them last night.
Across from me, a massive window stretches from floor to ceiling, offering a stunning view of the sprawling lawn and the distant tree line beyond.
The furniture is traditional, but not fussy; likely antiques, a mix of polished wood and neutral upholstery. There’s a chaise lounge by the window, a small writing desk tucked into one corner, and a nightstand with a crystal lamp.
But it doesn’t feel like mine.
None of it does.
I look around and note the absence of my things. Of course, that’s to be expected; all my belongings are still at my apartment, waiting to be packed up and brought here this weekend. Even so, the emptiness feels almost too much, like the room itself is holding its breath.
I run a hand through my hair and swing my legs over the edge of the bed to drag myself out of bed, feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck. My limbs are heavy, my head foggy, and my emotions all over the place. I glance at the mirror and wince. My reflection is a mess—dark circles under my eyes, hair sticking out in every direction.
Perfect.
With a deep breath, I force myself to get ready for my first day at work.
The hardwood floors are cool against my bare feet as I pad toward the bathroom. Sure, it’s just as luxurious and cold as the rest of the room with its marble countertops, rainfall shower, and deep soaking tub that looks big enough to swim in, but I’m not complaining.
As I brush my teeth and wash my face, my mind drifts back to last night.
The way he looked at me. The way his hands felt on my waist. The heat of his lips.
I grip the edge of the sink, my knuckles white. Stop it, Annie.
I can’t keep replaying it in my mind. It happened, and now I have to deal with the fallout. There’s no use torturing myself with what-ifs.
But what if...
No.
I shake my head sharply and grab a towel to dry my face. As I walk back into the bedroom, I glance at the clock on the nightstand. It’s later than I’d thought, and the day is already slipping away from me.
I grab some clothes—a simple blouse and jeans—from the small suitcase I’d brought over yesterday. As I dress, I try to focus on anything but Cole. But the memory of him, of his eyes darkened with something I can’t quite name, keeps sneaking back in.
Pulling my hair into a loose ponytail, I glance at the room again. The sunlight streaming through the window casts soft, golden patterns across the floor, and for a brief moment, it feels almost inviting. Almost.
But I know it’ll take more than sunlight and luxury to make this place feel like home.
I’m dreading heading downstairs, afraid of running into Cole. I know I’ll have to face him eventually, but I can’t handle it this morning.
Taking a deep breath, I straighten my shoulders and head toward the door. No matter what happened last night, I have a job to do. And for Robbie’s sake, I can’t let anything—or anyone—get in the way of that.
Please don’t be in the kitchen. Please don’t be in the kitchen. I repeat it like a mantra in my mind as I walk through the spacious hallways.
When I reach the main floor, the house is quiet. Too quiet.
The kitchen is empty, save for Evelyn, who’s bustling around with her usual efficiency. Relief washes over me like a cool breeze. No sign of Cole.
“Morning,” Evelyn says briskly, not even looking up as she sets a plate of eggs and toast on the island.
“Morning,” I reply, trying to sound normal.
“Coffee’s fresh,” she adds, gesturing toward the pot.
“Thanks,” I say, pouring myself a cup and taking a seat at the table.
It’s not long before Robbie comes padding into the kitchen, Rexy clutched tightly in one hand. His dinosaur pajamas are wrinkled, and his hair sticks up in messy tufts.
“Good morning,” I say, managing a smile despite my exhaustion.
“Morning,” he mumbles, climbing into his usual seat at the table .
Evelyn places a plate of pancakes in front of him, shaped like dinosaurs, of course. Robbie’s face lights up, and for a moment, my own worries fade.
“Are those T-Rex pancakes?” I ask, leaning closer.
“Yeah,” he says, grinning. “Evelyn’s the best.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Evelyn says dryly, but there’s a hint of a smile on her face as she moves to clean up the counter.
I watch as Robbie digs into his breakfast, drenching the pancakes with syrup. He looks happy, content, and I’m reminded of why I’m here in the first place.
It’s not about me. It’s about him.
As Robbie happily devours his syrup-drenched T-Rex pancakes, the sound of approaching footsteps echoes from the hallway. Moments later, Ellis strides into the kitchen, his posture straight and composed as always.
He’s dressed impeccably, even on a Sunday morning, in a crisp button-down and dark slacks. His sharp gray eyes flick between me and Robbie before settling on the little boy.
“Good morning, Master Robbie,” Ellis says, his tone polite but warm. “Did you sleep well?”
Robbie nods, his mouth full of pancake. “Yeah.”
Ellis smiles faintly, then glances my way. “Miss Fox,” he greets with a slight bow of his head. “I hope you’re settling in comfortably.”
“As comfortably as anyone can in a place this fancy,” I reply, offering him a small smile.
Ellis nods once, then turns his attention back to Robbie. “Did you tell Miss Fox about the field day yet?”
Robbie freezes mid-chew, his eyes going wide. He quickly swallows, his hands clutching Rexy a little tighter. “Uh... no.”
“Field day?” I ask, tilting my head curiously.
Ellis nods. “Yes, at Robbie’s school next week. It’s an annual event near the end of the year—games, activities, and competitions for the children. Parents and other adults often volunteer to help.” He looks pointedly at Robbie. “I thought perhaps Master Robbie would like to know if you’d be willing to volunteer.”
Robbie shifts in his seat, suddenly looking shy. His gaze drops to his plate, and he mumbles something I can’t quite catch.
“What was that?” I ask gently, leaning closer.
He hesitates for a moment, then peeks up at me. “Would you want to... you know, come to field day?”
My heart squeezes at how uncertain he sounds, like he’s not sure if I’ll say yes.
“Of course, I’d love to!” I say enthusiastically, giving him my brightest smile. “That sounds like so much fun.”
Robbie’s eyes brighten instantly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Really? ”
“Really,” I assure him. “I can’t wait. I’d love to meet all your friends. What kinds of games do they have?”
Robbie’s smile fades, and he looks down at his plate again, poking at a piece of pancake with his fork.
“What’s wrong?” I ask gently.
“Actually, I don’t want to go,” he says after a long pause, stumbling over the word “actually.”
“Why not?” I ask, frowning. “Field day sounds like it’d be a blast.”
He shrugs, still not meeting my eyes. “I just don’t like it.”
I tilt my head, studying him. “You don’t like the games?”
Another shrug.
“Come on, Robbie,” I say, keeping my tone light. “You can tell me.”
He hesitates, clutching Rexy tighter. Finally, he mumbles, “No one ever wants to play with me.”
My heart aches at his words.
“Oh, Robbie,” I say softly. “I’m so sorry.”
He shrugs again, but there’s a sadness in his eyes that breaks my heart.
“You know what?” I say, leaning closer. “I think this year will be different. You’ll have fun, I promise.”
He looks up at me, his expression uncertain. “You think so?”
“I know so,” I say firmly. “And if you want, I’ll do some of the events with you. How about that?”
“Really?” he asks, his voice small but hopeful.
“Really,” I say, smiling.
He hesitates, then says, “Promise?”
“I promise,” I say, holding out my pinky.
He smiles shyly and hooks his pinky with mine, clutching Rexy tightly with his other hand.
Robbie giggles, his enthusiasm contagious.
Ellis watches the exchange with an approving nod. “I’ll inform the school that you’ll be volunteering, Miss Fox. They’ll appreciate the help.”
“Thank you, Ellis,” I say.
For the first time all morning, I feel like I’ve done something right.