Chapter 7
I don’t sleep much. I drift in and out, tangled in sheets and shame and the ghost of Will’s eyes on mine.
Every time I close my eyes, I see that smirk.
That stillness. That knowing. I don’t know what I expected.
I mean, I did masturbate for him. But regret is a strange kind of hangover. It lingers in your bones.
When I finally doze off, it’s close to dawn. I wake up to soft sunlight bleeding through the edge of the curtain and the buzz of my phone against the nightstand.
Groggy, I fumble for it, expecting some early-morning meme from Tish or a calendar notification.
But it’s not either of those.
Will Flowers
You should close your curtains if you don’t want an audience.
My breath catches. Every nerve in my body lights up. There’s no greeting. No apology. Just that one line. Cool, controlled, and soaked in implication.
I stare at the screen, heartbeat thundering.
I wanted an audience.
I hit send. I don’t know if I’m more embarrassed or turned on right now. But, at least he knows I wanted him to watch.
I set the phone face down on the nightstand and stare at the wall for a long moment. My heart is still hammering from that message. Not fast exactly. Just deep. Like a slow drumbeat I can’t shake. I should feel ashamed. Humiliated, even. But instead, all I feel is seen.
I stand, pulling on a pair of shorts and an old ranch T-shirt, tying my hair up in a messy bun that still smells faintly of dry shampoo and regret. I brush my teeth on autopilot, ignoring the heat creeping into my cheeks every time I remember the way his gaze locked with mine.
In the small kitchen, I start the coffee pot and open the fridge like it might contain answers.
It doesn’t. Just oat milk, half a lemon, and leftovers I’ll never eat.
I crack two eggs into a pan, pretending I’m not half-expecting another message.
Pretending I don’t keep glancing toward the window like maybe he’s out there again. Shirtless. Watching.
But when I peek out through the blinds, his apartment is dark. Good. Or disappointing. I don’t know anymore.
I eat standing up, staring at the counter, chewing without tasting, and trying to focus on anything but last night.
But everything reminds me of it.
The lace skirt draped over the arm of the couch.
The folded laptop.
The ache between my legs that hasn’t fully faded.
I wash my plate, wipe down the counter, and try to pretend that today is just another morning. But it’s not. Because something shifted last night. And no amount of eggs or coffee can undo it.
By late morning, I’ve managed to answer a few emails and convince myself I’m totally fine. Totally. I even make a to-do list and underline things. That’s how you know it’s serious.
Then there's a knock downstairs at the back door. Three sharp raps. I freeze. Not because I think it’s him. But because I’m not ready for anyone.
I open the door and see a delivery guy standing there, red-faced and sweating next to a long, heavy box that’s definitely larger than anything I remember ordering.
“You Phern Stone?”
“Yep.”
“Got a delivery for you. Where do you want it?”
I step outside, blinking at the box. It’s the new couch I ordered weeks ago and completely forgot about. Of course it shows up today.
“Uh, just inside is fine. Thanks.”
He slides it in with a grunt and a “Good luck with that,” before tipping his cap and heading off.
I stare at the box. It’s long. Awkward. Heavy-looking. And it needs to go upstairs.
I try.
I really try.
But halfway up the steps, it catches on the railing, jerks out of my grip, and nearly takes me down with it.
“Shit,” I mutter, breathless, bracing it against the wall.
And then I hear it.
Footsteps.
Boots.
I turn, heart stalling.
Will’s standing at the bottom of the stairs, hands in the pockets of his jeans, gaze flicking from the box to me.
“I take it you’re too proud to ask for help,” he says, voice dry, steady.
I scowl. “I ask for help when I need it.”
He walks up a few steps, stopping just below me. His presence fills the stairwell. Fills me.
“Need a hand?” Amusement and something darker dances in his eyes.
My mouth opens and then closes. Because I do need a hand. Just not in the way he means.
I step back, and that’s all the answer he needs.
Will grips the box, muscles flexing beneath his T-shirt as he hoists it up the stairs like it weighs nothing. I follow, trying not to stare. Trying not to remember what I did last night.
When we reach the top, he sets it down just inside my apartment, straightens, and looks at me.
His eyes are darker than they were this morning.
“Curtain’s still open,” he says softly, gaze flicking toward the living room window. “That’s a bad habit, sugar.”
My breath catches.
“Like I said. I wanted an audience,” I say, voice barely above a whisper.
Silence stretches between us, heavy and charged.
And then—
“You gonna invite me in?”
I shake my head, pulse thudding. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Will’s brow lifts. “You’re going to need help building this.”
And then it hits me. He’s not asking to come in to ravish me. He’s asking to come in to build the damn couch. My face flushes hot, like my body got the wrong memo.
“Right this way,” I mumble, stepping aside.
The second the words leave my mouth, I cringe. I sound like a hostess in a home improvement showroom. But Will doesn’t react. He just pushes the box across the floor like it’s nothing, right into the middle of my living room.
Right into the same spot where I touched myself in front of him.
He whistles a low tune under his breath as he opens the box, kneeling down and pulling out pieces like he’s done this a hundred times.
Unlike last time, I don’t offer to help.
I sit on the floor, watching him work, trying not to fidget.
But the silence is thick, threaded with everything we’re both pretending didn’t happen.
He’s methodical. Calm. Like he’s trying very hard not to mention last night or this morning’s text.
Like he’s doing me a favor and not thinking about how my skirt was around my hips on this exact floor.
When he’s nearly done, the doorbell rings.
Will glances up. “More deliveries?”
I snort, standing. “Probably.”
We head downstairs, and sure enough there they are. My table. Chairs. Bookshelf. All stacked like the universe is mocking me for pretending I can do this alone.
Will doesn’t complain. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t say a damn word.
He just picks up the biggest box and starts up the stairs.
And I follow behind him, watching the way his muscles shift beneath his shirt, still unsure if I want to scream or kiss him or thank him or all three.
By the time the last piece is inside, my apartment looks more like a place someone lives in and less like a halfway stop between heartbreak and denial.
Will sets the final box down and rolls his shoulder with a grunt. “You’re gonna need a drill.”
I nod slowly, chewing the inside of my cheek. “I can pick one up later.”
“I’ll bring mine after work.”
There’s a pause. A beat suspended in that same thick, unspoken air that’s been hovering between us since last night.
“Thanks for helping,” I say, soft but sincere.
He tips his chin. “Anytime, kiddo.”
I snort, louder than I mean to. “Right. I forgot.”
His brows pull together. “Forgot what?”
“Nothing,” I say with a too-sweet smile, gesturing toward the door like I’m ready to escort him off the premises.
He watches me for a second longer than necessary, like he knows I’m playing at something. Then he turns and heads for the door. He’s almost out when I say it.
“See you later, Daddy.”
Silence. He freezes. Slowly he turns back, one brow arching with lethal precision. The heat in his eyes spikes so fast, I swear the temperature in the room shifts.
“You better be careful with that mouth, Phern.”
My heart skips, but I hold my ground, chin tilted just high enough to match his challenge. “Why? You gonna spank me if I don’t?”
Will stares at me, like he’s deciding whether to laugh or come back in and teach me a very specific lesson. But instead, he smirks. And it’s the kind of smirk that promises this isn’t over.
“When I come over later,” he says, voice low and rough. “Don’t wear anything you’d be afraid to ruin. ‘Cause Daddy’s going to show you just how good it can be.”
Then he’s gone.
And I’m left standing in the doorway, heart racing, knees wobbly, and grinning like a woman who’s about to get into a whole lot of trouble.
The day drags by like molasses in January. I check the clock obsessively, like somehow staring at it will make the hands move faster. Every time I glance over, it’s still not two. Still not time.
Dating a bar owner’s going to be hell on my nerves, I think with a smirk as I stir pasta on the stove, too keyed up to eat but too restless not to cook.
I tell myself to relax. To trust him. To be cool.
But the second the clock hits midnight, I’m in the shower—steam curling around me as I take my time, shaving every inch of my body like it’s ritual. Like it means something. Like it prepares me.
When I step out, I towel off, my skin tingling from the hot water and the nerves crawling just beneath it. I style my hair into sultry, glossy waves, the kind that look soft but calculated. My makeup is pure sin. Smoky eyes, red lips, lashes thick enough to cause trouble.
And then, per Will’s instructions, I slip into nothing but a robe. Short. Black. Barely tied. Something I don’t care if it gets ruined.
At one, a noise catches my attention. Raised voices and a few loud thuds coming from the alley near the bar.
I move to the window, peeking through the blinds.
The Sheriff’s out there, speaking to Will.
His posture is tense, jaw tight, one hand gesturing sharply.
Will nods once, then runs a hand through his hair, clearly agitated.