Chapter Seven #2
She decided on annoyed as she shoved out of the car and stomped up the walk.
She was annoyed that she’d spent the evening out, watching a boring movie and eating shitty popcorn that would surely give her gas, for no reason.
She was irritated because she could have been home with her feet up, eating cold fried chicken and watching old episodes of House Hunters International, sneering at Americans moving to Amsterdam who complain that the laundry’s in the kitchen and there’s no parking for their Cadillac Escalade.
And she was exasperated that he’d told her that he hadn’t had plans, when that was clearly untrue.
Clinging to annoyed, irritated and exasperated, she let herself into the house. The living room lamp was on, casting a welcoming glow, which only served to further annoy.
The worst part was that it was her own fault. She’d had some kind of mental lapse that morning, a nostalgia-induced fit of feelings that was both highly inappropriate and wholly unwelcome, and because it had taken her by surprise she’d acted like a virgin with a first crush. Which was ridiculous.
She was a grown woman, dammit, and it was just sex. Good sex, granted—maybe even great sex—but sex just the same, and she was letting it twist her up.
“Fuck that,” she announced, loudly enough it echoed in the empty room. Okay, so they had history, and a connection, but she couldn’t let the emotions linked to what they’d once had influence what was happening now.
Because what they’d once had was over, and had been for a long time. And there was no getting it back.
Pain came at the thought, a quick stab under the heart, then it was gone. No, they couldn’t get it back, and neither of them could be who’d they’d been back then, even if they wanted to.
And that was just fine, because she didn’t want the then. She wanted the now, where Nash was just a friend making good on a promise, and she wasn’t in love with him anymore.
Because loving Nash had been the best thing she’d ever done, and the hardest thing she’d ever had to stop doing, and the pain of that could not be borne again.
Never again.
“Never again,” she said out loud, and with a resolute nod, turned off the living room lamp. A petty move, maybe, but it made her feel better. Then she walked through the dark, empty house with her dark, empty thoughts, and went upstairs to bed.
* * * *
Nash didn’t see Bailey on Sunday. He’d left early to meet his parents and grandparents for brunch, something they tried to do once a month, and he’d made plans with friends to bike some of the trails outside of town after.
They’d gone for beers and burgers after the ride.
It had been after midnight when he’d gotten home.
He decided to take it as a positive sign that she’d left a light on for him this time, and though he hadn’t heard a peep out of her, he’d somehow known she was still awake.
He’d stood at the bottom of the stairs for long moments, the need to be with her warring with his better instincts. He knew that if he climbed those stairs, she wouldn’t turn him away. But he also knew it would allow her to convince herself that sex was all they had between them.
So he’d taken a shower, keenly aware that she was lying in her bed listening, and had gone to bed alone.
He didn’t sleep well, plagued by dreams that mixed the present and the past, and was groggy and out of sorts when the alarm went off the next morning.
Working from home at least meant he didn’t have to scramble to get ready. So in the boxer shorts he’d worn to bed, he shuffled out to the kitchen in hopes of caffeine.
He stumbled into one of the dining room chairs, cursed when he stubbed his toe on the table leg, then froze when he saw Bailey at the counter, pouring a cup of coffee.
The salon was closed on Mondays, so he hadn’t expected her to be up yet.
But she was dressed in crisp purple shorts that matched the streaks in her hair and a white tank top, those dangerous curves on full display, and her hair in a thick French braid down her back.
Her feet were bare, the toes painted to match her shorts and the streaks, and when she turned, a cup of coffee in one hand and toast with peanut butter in the other, he saw she’d added the purple contacts.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Huh?”
“Your foot.” She gestured with the toast, then took a bite. Her mouth was unpainted, still puffy from sleep, and he was suddenly very awake.
“Ah, yeah.” He flexed his foot, wincing at the stabbing pain in his big toe. “Fine.”
She took another bite, chewed slowly, then swallowed. “There’s coffee if you want some.”
“Thanks,” he managed, not moving. He wasn’t sure he could. “Um. You’re up early.”
She crossed to the table, choosing a chair opposite where he stood, and sat down. “I’ve some errands to run, and I want to get them done before it gets too hot.”
He thought it would be better with her sitting, when he couldn’t see her ass or thighs, but he now had a direct view down the scoop neck of her tank top. He fought to keep his eyes on her face. “Want company?”
Her eyes met his over the peanut butter toast, and he’d have given his left nut to be able to read them. But the contacts were a very effective shield. “Don’t you have to work?”
“Yeah,” he said, feeling foolish. “But I don’t have any meetings today. I can log in whenever.”
“I’ve got it, but thanks.”
“Okay,” he said and forced himself to cross the room to the cabinets. Maybe coffee would jump start his brain.
He pulled down a mug and grabbed the pot. He poured and gulped.
“It’s hot,” she warned a second before he spewed coffee all over the counter.
“No shit,” he wheezed and, mouth scalded, reached for the paper towels. He mopped the counter, tossed the paper towels into the sink—fuck it, he’d put them in the trash later—then took his coffee cup to the table and collapsed into a chair.
“You hungover?”
He wished he was—at least then he’d have an excuse for how awkward and clumsy he was being. “No.”
Her eyebrows shot up at the snap in his tone, her mouth quirking in amusement. “Okay.”
The smirk just made his dick harder, and knowing he couldn’t do anything about it didn’t improve his mood. “Sorry,” he managed. “Rough night.”
Something flickered in her expression, almost like a wince, then was gone. “Hit the town, did you?”
“Did a ten-mile bike ride,” he said and took a cautious sip of coffee.
She wrinkled her nose, and the expression was so familiar he almost smiled.
She’d never fully understood his enjoyment of the outdoors, or his love of climbing on a mountain bike and tackling a rough trail.
He’d talked her into joining him once, on what he considered an easy ride on a short trail, and she’d threatened to kill him twice in the first mile.
By the second she was barely speaking to him, and when they’d started the third she’d stopped her bike and refused to go any further.
Only the promise of a thorough massage once they got home—and the fact that the only way to get home was to keep going—had convinced her to finish the three and a quarter mile ride.
“What’s so funny?” she asked, and he realized he was grinning.
“I was just remembering the time I talked you into a ride on Willow Creek Trail.”
She held up a hand, palm out. “We do not speak of it.”
His grin widened. “Drama queen.”
“Do you know how many mosquito bites I got on that bike ride?”
“Yes, because you made me put cortisone cream on every last one of them.”
“Damn right, I did,” she said tartly, but her mouth had softened, and even with the contacts shielding her eyes he could see they’d gone misty with memories.
He risked a little push. “And then you said you were too sore to move, so if I wanted sex I had to do all the work.”
“And work you did,” she drawled, raising her coffee mug in a toast.
Relief widened his grin, and he tapped his mug to hers. “It was my pleasure.”
“And speaking of your pleasure…”
He choked on his coffee, coughing and sputtering, and barely managed to keep from spitting all over the table.
When he could breathe again, he pointed an accusing finger. “You do that on purpose, I know you do.”
Her smirk had a wicked edge. “I have to have some fun.”
“I thought you did that on Friday. And again on Saturday.”
The smirk fell away and her body went stiff, and when her gaze dropped to the table, alarm bells began clanging in his head.
“Or am I not supposed to bring that up?” he asked, keeping his voice mild out of sheer will.
As he’d hoped, the gentle poke had her gaze rising to his. He still couldn’t read her eyes, damn those contact lenses, but her expression turned haughty and her chin came up.
“Oh, you can bring it up,” she all but purred, arrogance in every word. “You’re just not going to get it anymore.”
So profound was his relief that she was acting like herself again that it took him five full seconds to understand her meaning. And because he’d expected exactly this, he had to suppress a smile. “Cutting me off, are you?”
She blinked in surprise, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep the smile off his face.
“Not completely,” she said, and he had to give her points for a quick recovery. “You still have the gang bang.”
He kept silent, wanting to hear the story she’d decided to tell herself.
“But I don’t think we should…”
“Fuck unless there’s other people in the room?” he finished.
The look she shot him was pure queen to peasant. “If you’re going to be a dick about it, you can forget the gang bang, too.”
He spread his hands, the picture of cooperation and deference. “I’m just trying to understand.”
“I just think if we’re going to be roommates, we need boundaries.”
“Okay, I get that. I do,” he insisted when her eyes narrowed. “Sex complicates things, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” she said slowly, distrust all but dripping from the single syllable.
“We’re not lovers, after all,” he continued. “Just friends these days, right?”
“Just friends,” she echoed.