Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
NATHAN
I spend all day Sunday fucking clock-watching and counting down the seconds until I get to see Roni.
I stop by her favorite restaurant, Julio’s, and grab a bag of tacos before heading to her apartment, ready to put on my best friend face.
For the next few hours, I’ll pretend that I’m not hopelessly obsessed with my best friend.
Actually, I’m so in love with her I can’t goddamn see straight.
Since I own the building, I use my keycard to get in the main door.
I work on getting my shit together as I ride the elevator up to the fifth floor.
I stare at the numbers ticking up and wonder if anyone else has ever been this obsessed with making sure one woman is safe.
Probably not. Most people don’t buy a damn apartment building just so their best friend doesn’t have to deal with shitty landlords and sketchy neighbors, but here we are.
I run a hand over my jaw and smirk to myself. Totally normal behavior, right?
Convincing Roni to move in here was the best thing I’ve ever done.
Took a month of pestering, a spreadsheet’s worth of “pros and cons,” and at least ten bribes involving baked goods, but I finally wore her down.
Now I sleep better knowing she’s got a secure building, cameras in every hallway, and a landlord who’d crawl through broken glass if she ever needed anything.
Doesn’t make me less of a psycho, but whatever.
I knock on her door, shifting the paper bag from hand to hand because the bottom is starting to give.
When the door finally cracks, she’s standing there in a pair of faded leggings and an oversized shirt with a cartoon cat flipping the bird.
She’s barefoot, hair down and still a little damp from a shower.
It takes all my self-control not to touch her face.
Instead, I lift the bag. “I brought enough processed food to kill a horse,” I say. “Hope you’re hungry.”
She laughs, that perfect dimple showing up on her right cheek, and steps aside to let me in. “You’re my hero.” The way she says it melts my heart while simultaneously turning my cock hard as a rock.
Her one-bedroom is a postage stamp—clean but chaotic in that way only Roni can manage.
Shoes tumble in a pile by the door, her spotless kitchen counter hosts exactly one dying succulent, and paperbacks stack like tiny skyscrapers against every wall because "bookshelves take up valuable floor space.
" The whole place smells like lemon cleaner and the vanilla candle she's always burning.
I don't even bother asking if she's eaten yet; we both know she hasn't.
I set the food on her coffee table, and she’s already unpacking containers, sniffing each one. “You got the chicken tacos?”
“Of course.” I drop onto the couch, which has seen better days, and kick my feet up. “What kind of monster do you take me for?”
She grins. “The kind who brings extra chips and queso. The bestest ever.” She wiggles her eyebrows and then flops down next to me.
The cushions dip so we end up practically shoulder-to-shoulder.
If I moved my arm an inch, I’d have it around her.
I don’t, because I’m not ready to test our friendship.
We eat in comfortable silence for a bit, the TV filling the room with the sound of badly produced reality dating shows. I don’t even know which one she’s watching since she cycles through them like most people change socks.
“So,” she says around a mouthful of chips and queso, “how’s prep for the big bachelorette auction going?”
Fuck. Work is the last goddamn thing I want to talk about.
I groan, letting my head fall back against the cushions.
“Eamon’s treating it like the goddamn Met Gala.
There’s a guest list, a red carpet, and some influencer is coming to ‘cover the event for her blog.’” I make air quotes.
“If I survive the next week, it’ll be a miracle. ”
She laughs, snorting a little, and my entire ribcage feels like it’s vibrating.
The sound makes me want to grab her and never let go.
“Come on, Nathan. Admit it. You love the drama.” Her elbow nudges mine, soft skin pressing into me for a second longer than necessary. “You secretly live for this stuff.”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling, too. “It’s a living.” It’s actually the best job in the world. I’m just ready to have someone to share it with—her.
She takes a bite of a taco, and the thing explodes in her hands, sending crumbs falling everywhere.
I can’t help it. I reach over, dust some of the bits off her cheek.
She freezes. I freeze. It’s maybe a two-second touch, but my heart is pounding so hard I’m afraid she can hear it.
Her eyes go wide, ocean blue, and there’s a tiny hitch in her breathing.
We’re too close. We’ve always been too close. I should pull back, crack a joke, anything.
But my hand lingers. “You missed a spot,” I say, voice pitched low.
She swallows, and for a second, I swear she’s about to lean in. Instead, she clears her throat and looks away, face flushed. “I’m a mess,” she mutters, brushing more crumbs onto her leggings.
The show on TV blares in the background, but all I can focus on is the tiny gap between us and the warm coconut-scented heat of her skin. This is hell. I’ve been in love with her for six years, and I’m too goddamn chicken shit to make a move.
We finish dinner, switching over to a rerun of some supernatural drama she claims is “the pinnacle of trash TV.” At some point, she leans into me, head on my shoulder, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I drape my arm around her, just barely, and she doesn’t pull away.
My whole goddamn body is on fire, and all I can think is, If I don’t kiss her tonight, I might actually explode.
But then the credits roll, and she stretches, arms above her head, shirt riding up to expose a flash of pale skin. She doesn’t notice. “Thanks for dinner, Natie Boo,” she says, voice small.
That fucking nickname actually causes my cock to harden. I’m a goddamn mess. “Anytime.” I force myself to stand, hands jammed into my pockets. I need to get away from the temptation. Stat. “Want me to lock up on my way out?”
Her mouth opens and closes, then she exhales and nods. “Night.”
I leave, walking down the hall with the same mix of relief and regret I always feel after seeing her. This thing between us—it’s like holding a live wire. Sooner or later, it’s going to fry me. And yet, I wouldn’t put it down for anything.
In the car, I just sit there for a minute, staring at the windshield, thinking about the way she fit against my side. About the way she almost, maybe, leaned in. About the look in her eyes.
Maybe after this damn auction, I’ll finally say it. Or maybe I’ll keep pretending.
My house is cold, clinical, and not at all like Roni’s.
Every surface is polished, every corner curated.
I hired some interior designer from Chicago and told him I wanted it to feel like I could live in a magazine.
He delivered giant open spaces, black marble counters, and a kitchen with more gear than most restaurants.
Every inch is expensive, impressive, and colder than the ass end of a January morning.
Which is exactly what hits me when I walk in and drop my keys on the stone countertop.
The foyer echoes. The lights turn on automatically, casting their custom-programmed glow on leather and chrome and glass.
It all looks exactly like the photos, which is another way of saying it feels about as lived-in as a display model.
I toss my wallet and phone onto a tray and wander toward the back, where the entire wall is glass. The backyard view has a swimming pool with a waterfall and tons of trees for privacy.
Roni’s place always smells like lavender and vanilla. She has that ancient blue couch that swallows you whole, and every surface is scattered with mugs and paperbacks and little pieces of her—fucking perfect.
I think about her laugh, the way she curls her legs up to her chest, and fantasize about what it would be like if she lived here, in my too-big, too-perfect house. I imagine her leaving a trail of sweaters, her scent clinging to the sheets, her toothbrush parked next to mine.
I take a long pull of beer and imagine life with Roni living here with me. I picture it all the time.
When I finally crash on the bed, the sheets are cold, and I stare at the ceiling for a while, willing myself not to text her. Not to do something stupid like tell her what’s really in my head.
But then I drift, and the dream comes, just like it has every night for years.
It’s always the same. I’m in the club, but it’s empty, except for her.
She’s behind the bar, pouring drinks, wearing a little black dress that looks like her curvy body was poured into.
But in the dream, she’s not shy. She leans over the bar, lips red, and crooks her finger.
I go to her like I’m on a string, and the second I get close, she grabs my tie and pulls me down until our mouths crash.
Her sweet, tangy taste flows through me as her hands fist in my hair.
She drags her nails down my scalp while making these desperate little noises that drive me crazy.
I grip her hips and lift her onto the bar, pushing her skirt up, feeling her legs wrap around me.
She’s so warm, and the smell of her fills my head until I’m drunk on it.
Her hands pull me closer, and she unbuttons my shirt before dragging her fingers over my skin. She grinds against me, shameless, and I’m so fucking hard it hurts.
“Tell me,” she whispers, biting my ear. “Tell me what you want.”
I want everything. I want her in my bed, in my house, in my life, forever. But I can’t say it. I never say it.
Instead, I lift her off the bar and carry her to a booth, laying her down and kissing every inch of her I can reach. She’s so soft, and she tastes like heaven, and when I finally slide inside her, she arches up and moans my name.
“Nathan,” she says, voice rough and low, and I feel it everywhere, down to my bones.
I wake up with my hand clenching the sheets, sweating and hard and furious at myself for being such a goddamn coward.
I stare at the ceiling and wonder if this is what purgatory feels like. Close enough to touch, but never quite there.
Maybe after the auction, I’ll grow a set of balls and make a move.
But I know, clear as day, that I can’t keep living like this. I’m going to have to risk it all—her friendship, my heart, everything—because the idea of going another six years with nothing but the taste of her in my dreams is enough to drive any man insane.
I get up, yank the shower on as cold as it’ll go, and stand under it until my skin is numb and my thoughts are clear.
Tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow, or the day after. But soon.
I’m going to make her mine.