Chapter 9
Iwake up, and the memory of last night floods back with an intensity that startles me. I try to hold on to the weightless feeling of laughter and freedom, but it slips away, replaced by the images I fought to ignore.
James.
The way he kissed me, the heat of his hands, the reckless abandon I didn’t think he was capable of. I close my eyes and see him again and feel the embarrassment from last night creep over me, pooling in the pit of my stomach.
How the hell am I going to face him on Monday? Even worse, how am I going to face Nash after this?
The sun creeps through my blinds, flooding the room with morning light, but even its warmth isn’t enough to stop the chill of my self-consciousness from settling in. My brain cycles through all the reasons I shouldn’t feel bad.
My cheeks burn as I recall the look on his face when I got out of the truck.
It’s fine, I tell myself. It’s nothing.
If I keep repeating it, maybe I’ll believe it. Maybe the embarrassment will go away, or at least the part of it that keeps me thinking of James.
What was I thinking?
The idea of bailing on Nash crosses my mind.
I let it linger there, let it swirl around with all the other doubts I’m collecting.
I stare up at the ceiling, not even sure what to call the way I’m feeling right now. Restless. Uneasy. Still thinking about James’s touch.
Salem nuzzles against my shoulder, forcing me back into the present. I sit up, stroking his fur, willing my thoughts to stop racing.
I still have a few hours to decide if I want to meet Nash. To decide if it’s a mistake to see him at all after the kiss with James last night.
Salem follows me as I shuffle through the apartment, his purring a constant reminder that he’s the only unproblematic male in my life.
I spend the day doing everything I can not to think about James. I fold laundry, water the plants, and organize my books alphabetically by author. Each task is a brief pause in the cycle of my thoughts, a fleeting distraction from the questions I’m refusing to answer.
By the time I’ve run out of chores, it’s already late afternoon. I decide I should go to dinner, knowing I’ll regret it if I don’t.
Besides, Nash always makes me laugh, and maybe he’ll distract me from the embarrassment of last night.
I move through my room, pulling clothes from the closet. With each choice, I tell myself it’s just dinner.
No big deal.
I reach for my favorite pair of jeans and a nice blouse that compliments my eyes. I slip into the clothes, fussing with the blouse’s collar until it’s just right.
I glance in the mirror, a mix of nerves and eagerness staring back at me.
As I reach for my jewelry box, I hesitate, my fingers grazing the delicate earrings I always get compliments on. I pair them with a simple necklace I know Nash will like and pause, surprised by how much I care what he thinks.
I imagine Nash’s easy smile, the way he looks at me like I’m the only person in the room.
Taking a deep breath, I run my fingers through my hair and head to the door.
The neighborhood buzzes with its usual weekend energy as I walk to my car. I slip in, the seatbelt snug across my chest like a reminder to keep myself together. The engine purrs to life, and I pull away from the curb, the city unfolding around me.
When I pull up to the address Nash texted, I double check to make sure I’m in the right place.
This…isn’t a restaurant. It’s a townhome. Nash’s home.
My cheeks flush with anger, and the sensation of being trapped sets in. There’s a flicker of betrayal, a quick flash of uncertainty, and I grip the steering wheel, fighting the urge to turn back. This was not what I expected.
But I’m already here, and I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of bailing. I take a deep breath, unclench my hands, and step out of the car.
I walk up the stone path, every step a decision to follow through, to not back out. When I reach the door, I hesitate, my heart pounding. I knock, determined to see this through.
Nash answers almost immediately, as if he was waiting right on the other side. I glare at him, but his smile is wide, disarming.
“You made it,” he says, like he anticipated this reaction from me. “Come in,” Nash says, stepping back, his eyes bright with mischief.
I cross the threshold, feeling the warmth of the space.
It’s more inviting than I would have expected, more thought out. I take in the exposed brick, the soft lighting, the guitars lining the walls. It has Nash written all over it.
Turning my scowl back to Nash and folding my arms, I say, “This was your plan? Inviting me to your home, Nash?”
“Well, you said ‘lowkey’ about a hundred times. Doesn’t get much lower key than this, doll,” he says, looking amused by my irritation.
“I’m not your doll,” I bite back.
“No? Then why do I want to play with you so badly?” He steps closer, and my cheeks heat for a moment before I remember myself, forcing the flush away.
“I agreed to dinner, Nash. I’m not here to fuck you. You asked for a chance, so I’m giving you a chance.” I pause before adding, “Don’t waste it.”
“I don’t plan to,” he says, the look on his face more sincere than I’ve seen from him.
“So what’s for dinner?” I ask, hoping to redirect the tension that’s building fast.
“Pizza,” he says with a grin.
“You ordered pizza?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“No, we’re making pizza.” He gestures towards the kitchen.
I follow his movement, my eyes landing on the counter. It’s covered with everything needed to make pizza: dough, flour, sauce, cheese, and every possible topping known to man.
The effort he’s put into this makes me smile despite myself.
“If I had known we were doing this, I wouldn’t have worn such a nice blouse,” I say, thinking about how my top will probably have flour all over it by the time we’re done.
“I’ll get you a shirt,” Nash replies and runs upstairs, returning with a band tee in his hand.
“Thanks,” I say, taking it from him.
“Bathroom is down the hall,” he gestures.
I duck into the bathroom and change my blouse for the tee, the fabric soft against my skin. It’s loose and comfortable, smelling faintly of him.
When I come back, Nash looks me over, nodding in approval.
“Looks good on you,” he says.
I fight the urge to blush and join him at the counter, looking over the ingredients.
We start working the dough, flour dusting our hands. He’s surprisingly skilled at it, movements sure and practiced, and I watch him with curiosity.
“My mom and I used to do this when I was a kid,” he says, a softness to his voice. “Pizza Fridays. Just the two of us.”
“Must’ve been nice,” I reply, surprised by the glimpse into his past.
He nods, a fond smile playing at his lips. “Yeah. She raised me on her own. We didn’t have a lot when I was growing up, but she always found a way to make things special.”
The sincerity in his words shifts something in me, and I find myself wanting to know more. “Sounds like you were close. Do you see her often?”
“Not as much anymore. She married my stepdad a few years ago. They live a couple hours from here now, but we still talk all the time,” he says, then adds, “What about you? Any family food traditions?”
I laugh, attempting to form my dough into anything that looks remotely pizza-shaped.
“Not really. We were more of a Chinese takeout family. My parents are both doctors, so getting all of us at the dinner table at the same time was pretty rare.”
“You didn’t want to follow in their footsteps?” he asks, forming his dough into a perfect circle. “Do the doctor thing?”
“They wanted me to, but I knew it wasn’t for me. I’ve wanted to be a lawyer for as long as I can remember. Plus, I could argue with a brick wall,” I say, giving him a small smirk.
Nash is already spreading the sauce on his pizza when he looks over at my handiwork to find that I can’t work this dough without it ripping.
“I’m about to argue with this dough,” I huff.
He laughs and moves to stand behind me.
“Here. Let me show you.” He runs his hands down my forearms until they rest on top of mine and starts working the dough.
His touch is gentle, his tone soft.
“You’ve gotta be patient with it,” Nash says, moving my hands in slow, confident circles.
It should be awkward, but it isn’t. The flour dusts our knuckles, and I try not to notice the way his chest presses into my shoulder blades or how natural it feels to have him this close, guiding me.
The moment is charged, silly and intimate all at once. He looks at me over my shoulder, his lashes dark and low. “See? Not so hard once you get the hang of it.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He straightens and moves over to stand by my side, allowing my breathing to return to normal again.
“What about you? Is this job what you always wanted to do?” I ask, reaching for the sauce.
“Definitely not. I’m good at it,” he says, an edge of certainty in his voice. “But it’s not forever. I’m hoping to get into music production, eventually. I’ve already started building a studio upstairs.”
I nod, taking this in. “And the band? That’s just for fun?”
“Mostly,” he says. “We play gigs for extra cash, but I’d do it for free. I love it.” His eyes meet mine, and there’s an openness that makes my heart flutter.
I look away, focusing on the pizza.
We put the final toppings on our pizzas and pop them into Nash’s countertop pizza oven. Nash turns to the sink, washing the flour off his hands and then nods, indicating it’s my turn.
As I’m cleaning my hands, he grabs a hand towel to dry his hands. I hold my dripping hands out to grab the towel, but Nash dries them for me.
The unexpected intimacy of the gesture surprises me, and I raise my gaze to meet his. We stare into each other’s eyes, neither of us saying a word until finally, Nash speaks up.
“I want to kiss you,” he says, slow and deliberate. “I want to kiss you, and I don’t want you to run from my touch this time.”
“I won’t,” I say, breathless.