Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
Noelle
I wake to the all-consuming darkness, its tendrils coming straight for my throat. But with Cole’s body wrapped around mine, protecting me from the night, it loses its fangs.
The winter winds howl as they come down mountains, keeping him fast asleep.
God, I wish that were me. That I could stay like this, warm and wrapped in his arms, for the rest of my days.
His bare skin rises softly underneath my fingertips, the rise and fall of his breathing reassuring me deep in my bones.
Last night is a haze of lust and feelings, and I know that this was a long time coming for both of us.
One glance at his sculpted chest brings me right back to that place, to that itch only he can scratch.
It would be so easy to lock myself in the bathroom and make myself come, but I won’t.
Cole is the only one I want touching me now.
It takes intense effort not to rub myself on his thigh and wake him up with a kiss, every inch of my body burning to feel him inside of me again. But last night was a one-time thing, and it wouldn’t be fair of me to expect anything more. I should leave before I do something stupid.
I expect the cold touch of the wooden floors when I step out of bed, yet it doesn’t come. I look down to find Cole put his thickest socks on my feet while I slept, knowing how cold they get. A crease forms between my eyebrows as I try to figure out his motive.
He’s not mine, no matter how badly I want him to be. We just had sex. Amazing, toe-curling, heaven-seeing sex. But we are both consenting adults, best friends. It doesn’t mean anything.
Even if he cooked me my favorite dinner and called it a date. Even if he declared his love for me on a dare without complaint, and a strangely convincing gaze. We got caught up in a moment. That’s all it is.
And now that the moment’s passed, I am left to pick up the pieces of my heart.
The world is quiet enough you could hear a pin drop, and I make my way down the stairs on the tip of my toes to avoid waking Cole. I want nothing more than to talk to him, make sure some part of our friendship survived, but I need time alone to think.
I know myself. One look at his dopey smile and all thoughts go out the window. And I can’t have that right now.
Pacing the wall of bookshelves that lines the living room, I take in every author, title and cover.
It’s hard to imagine Cole reading most of these; he likes reading well enough, but he’s more of the sporty, physical type.
He doesn’t take the time to read a lot, let alone enough to fill these shelves.
But there is one particular shelf, right at my height, that gives me pause.
Somehow, Cole has a copy of all my favorite books.
Why would he do that? He’s my best friend, sure, but it’s not like I keep his favorite books at my place. I’ve got his favorite chips and his beer, and some spare clothes in case he needs them. Everything a good friend is supposed to have.
A strange feeling rumbles in my chest as the realization hits. Between this and the pads in the bathroom and all my favorite things filling his house…it’s like Cole built this house with me in mind.
And I can’t make sense of it.
I don’t come over nearly enough to warrant this level of care. I could understand the snacks or even the pads—that’s just considerate and being prepared. But why have my books? Why have that dress?
Every minute this storm drags on I get more confused about what’s going on between us.
I always thought it was black and white; I’m a waitress, he’s a big name in the NHL.
I’m me, and he looks like that. I lucked out having him as my best friend, but there was never any chance of something happening between us. But now…now I don’t know what to think.
Maybe I should lose myself in a story for a while, turn off the rambling part of my brain until I can make sense of all of this.
I pick a book and plop myself down on the couch, burying myself in a blanket to keep out the cold. A fire would be nice, but my track record with fire is as messy as Cole with the coffee machine—I won’t dare as I might burn the house down.
The snow piles up further against the window, up to my ribs at the very least, and I’m in someone else’s house, depending on him even when he insists it’s not like that. I should feel trapped and anxious, yet somehow, this is the most calm I’ve been in months.
I get so lost in my book that I don’t notice Cole until he walks right past me, his velvety voice muttering a soft good morning, Honey. He walks into the kitchen, shoulders stiff and rigid, and I see him clutching the counter top with all his strength.
I’m not sure what I expected; maybe he’d sit down next to me, try to distract me like he always does, make me laugh. But not this. Never this. Something feels different now. Colder, almost.
Like he got what he wanted, and now I’ve lost my use.
Is that it? Was our entire friendship just a ridiculously long con to get into my pants? No, that can’t be. Months ago, his then-girlfriend used him for her five minutes of fame, and it almost broke him. There is no way Cole is capable of being that cruel.
Or maybe I don’t know him as well as I think.
A knot forms in my throat as my mind latches onto the possibility. It would make sense, I suppose. Definitely more so than him actually seeing me as more than a friend. Yet, I can’t bring myself to actually consider this as an actual possibility.
Because if that is the truth, if Cole really was playing me just to get me to fuck him, then that means we were never friends at all. Not really.
And I can’t accept that.
He can ignore what happened, regret it, refuse to ever talk about it. But he can’t be a liar. He can’t play with my heart like it means nothing to him.
Cole strolls out of the kitchen with a steaming mug of tea and sets it on the table at my feet without a word, though his smile is as warm and kind as always. It’s unlike him to be this quiet with me—it’s unsettling, and only echoes the doubts plaguing my mind.
Still, I won’t be the one to bring up what happened last night..
I won’t be the one that gets him to leave me.