Chapter 11
Rika
It's Monday, and I'm pretty sure I've been dreaming about that kiss with Noah.
Which is pathetic. And distracting. And deeply inconvenient.
Especially since I haven't seen him or heard from him since Friday night. He apparently spent the rest of the weekend at his Gramp’s house on Maple Street.
I bet he’s avoiding me because he’s ashamed of what he did. Or he’s worried I’ll become a clingy, needy woman in need of constant reassurance after my husband’s repeated infidelity.
No text. No casual check-in. Nothing. Just a big, loud absence that sits in the back of my mind like an itch I can't reach.
The problem is, I'm not thinking like a mother right now.
I'm thinking like a woman who got kissed senseless on her front porch and then got told to take a rain check like she's a teenager and not a grown-ass adult with a mortgage and car payments.
None of that matters right now, despite what my out-of-control hormones are trying to tell me.
Because right now, I'm interviewing someone who has the potential to solve a lot of my problems and bring some semblance of sanity back into my life.
Dennis Thorngate looks at me with the kind of eager, hopeful expression that reminds me of a puppy waiting for a treat.
The young orc sits across from me in the conference nook, his green-gray skin catching the late afternoon light streaming through the window.
His small tusks peek out when he smiles, and he's smiling a lot right now, his dark eyes bright with excitement as he reviews the employment contract I've just slid across the table.
"This is amazing, Ms. Everdeen," he says, his voice deep but youthful. "I mean, really amazing. The salary is more than fair, and the benefits package is incredible for a firm this size."
I allow myself a small smile. Dennis is twenty-four, fresh from passing his CPA exam on the first try, and his resume is honestly better than mine was at his age.
Geraldine vetted him thoroughly, running background checks and calling every reference he listed.
The kid is smart, available, and, most importantly, hungry to start his career.
"I'm glad you think so," I say, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice. "As I mentioned, tax season is coming up fast, and I need someone who can hit the ground running."
"I can do that." Dennis nods so enthusiastically his whole upper body shakes. "I've already been studying the tax code changes for this year, and I'm familiar with all of the software platforms you mentioned."
He's perfect. Almost too perfect. I'll need to keep him happy if I don't want another firm to poach him from right under my nose. All the while, he just sits there, grinning like I've handed him the keys to the city.
"You can start tomorrow," I hear myself say. "If that works for you."
"Tomorrow's perfect." Dennis uncaps his pen and signs the contract with a flourish, his handwriting surprisingly neat for someone who looks like he could bench-press a small car. "Thank you, Ms. Everdeen. You won't regret this."
"Welcome to Saltford Accounting, Dennis." I shake his hand, his massive one engulfing mine, and try to ignore the way my wings are practically vibrating with relief. "And call me Rika. I feel like a crone whenever someone calls me Ms. Everdeen."
After he leaves, I sit alone in the conference nook, staring at the signed contract like it might disappear if I look away.
This is real. I hired someone. I have actual, genuine hope of spending more time at home with my kids.
For the first time since way before Mitchell left, I let myself imagine what it might actually look like to have work-life balance.
To leave the office at five o'clock and come home without my brain still being at the office.
To not spend every weekend catching up on work I couldn't finish during the week because I was too busy putting out fires.
My phone buzzes on the table. For one humiliating, hopeful second, my stomach flips like it thinks it might be Noah.
It's not. It's Zoe.
ZOE: I hate Jasmine.
ZOE: I want to come home.
ZOE: Can you please come get me???
My chest tightens so fast it's like my lungs forget what they're supposed to do.
I stare at the screen, thumb hovering, my heart doing that awful split thing it always does when my kids are hurting. Half of me is ready to sprint out the door and scoop her up, and half of me is reminding myself that it's important the kids spend quality time with their father.
Even if it means they have to spend time with Jasmine.
I type.
ME: What happened?
A pause. Then three dots. Then another pause.
ZOE: She keeps calling us a family. She's not my family.
ZOE: And she keeps touching Matthew's hair and calling him sweetheart.
ZOE: She even asked me to be bridesmaid at her and dad’s wedding. I said hard pass.
I close my eyes. Of course she does.
And I get it. I do. I'm not a fan of her either. But like it or not, she is going to be Zoe's stepmother, and if Zoe pushes her away, she'll end up pushing her dad away, too.
And it's not like Mitchell is making loads of effort to be in the kids' lives as it is. I'm afraid if Zoe acts out with Jasmine, Mitchell will stop trying altogether.
Abandon them, for real. I hate that I'm thinking that way. I hate that I have to.
I type, forcing my hands to stay steady.
ME: I'm sorry, baby. I know it's hard, but you have to try your best to get along with Jasmine.
ZOE: She stole Dad from us. She’s a housebreaker.
I close my eyes and inhale deeply. I understand why Zoe thinks Jasmine is to blame for the divorce, but the truth is, she’s not the one who did the housebreaking. Mitchell is.
Jasmine is just an opportunistic woman who saw a chance of hooking her wagon to a wealthy man.
ME: You're with your dad for spring break. Try to enjoy it, okay? You'll be home soon.
There’s a long pause.
ZOE: Wow.
ZOE: Okay. Never mind.
And that's it.
No heart emoji. No "love you." No argument.
Just… okay.
It worries me, but I tell myself that Zoe is safe. She’s with her dad in Boston. She will be grateful in the long run that I didn’t come and pick her up.
I set my phone face down on the table. This is one thing hiring Dennis won't solve. Zoe's feelings toward her dad and Jasmine aren't a problem that will be solved anytime soon.
Still, I hope I'm making the right decision by refusing to bring her home.
Geraldine pokes her head through the doorway, pulling me from my worries about Zoe.
“How did it go with Dennis?” she asks, raising one gray eyebrow in question.
“He starts tomorrow.”
Her stone features crack into the widest smile of approval I've ever seen on a gargoyle.
"Good," she says simply, then disappears back to her desk.
I gather up the contract Dennis just signed and head back to my office, my steps lighter than they've been in weeks, even with Zoe's text sitting heavy in my chest.
I check the time. Five p.m.
I could leave. I have Dennis starting tomorrow and that means a huge chunk of my workload just lifted off my shoulders. I could go home and just enjoy myself.
The thought propels me out of my chair. I grab my bag and my laptop and head for the door.
"I'm leaving," I tell Geraldine, who looks up from her computer with barely concealed shock.
"It's five."
"I've got the house to myself." I can't help the smile tugging at my lips. "I'm going to run myself a long bath and read in my pajamas the rest of the evening."
Geraldine's expression softens and she gives me another one of her rare smiles.
"Good. Go."
The drive home feels surreal. The sun is still up. Traffic is light, as is always the case in small towns. I'm not white-knuckling the steering wheel while mentally reviewing my to-do list.
I'm just driving home. Like a normal person.
When I arrive home, the house is quiet, but Noah’s car is in the driveway. A light shines from Noah's basement apartment windows.
Oh, so he’s back. Weird, since the kids aren’t home this week.
Maybe he’s there to pick up some stuff he left? I stare at the glow, trying to summon the courage to walk down there. I fail.
Maybe I will after I've had a chance to shower and relax a bit. I could text Noah and ask him if he wants to come up and watch a movie with me.
Maybe this time, he'll stay the night.
The prospect both terrifies and electrifies me as I make my way to the house and let myself in. I pause, my back to the closed door, and just listen.
Silence. Peace. This isn’t a treat I’m used to.
I kick off my heels and pad into the kitchen in my stockinged feet, my wings relaxing as I roll my shoulders.
Everything is clean. The counters are wiped down, the dishes are put away, and there's a pot roast in the fridge with a note in Noah's handwriting.
Pot roast with carrots and potatoes. Just reheat at 350 for 20–30 min.
My lips curve and I grab the note and read it again, tracing my fingers over his neat script.
I bite my lower lip and reach for my phone. Then, before I can chicken out, I'm texting.
Me: Thanks for the pot roast, but it's a lot of food for just me. Maybe you'd like to come and help me eat it? Cash that rain check you promised me.
I stare at the screen, horrified at myself. Then three little dots appear below my text.
And I flip the phone screen-side down on the countertop before Noah's text appears. My heart beats hard and fast as I stare at my phone as the text message sound rings.
I'm not sure I want to know what he said.
Flashes of Friday night come to my mind, unabashed and unfiltered. The way his lips felt. The way he kissed me like he wanted to devour me whole. The way his hard, strong body dwarfed mine in the best way.
The way his obvious erection pressed against my stomach when he pulled me into him.
I felt like a woman for the first time in, well, forever.
Heat pools low in my belly at the memory. I haven't felt this kind of raw, aching want in years.
Mitchell never made me feel like this. With Noah, I felt like my skin was too tight and my body hummed with electricity just from being in the same room.
I glance at the clock and realize I can do whatever I want.
No kids. No dinner rush. No homework. No bedtime routine.
Just me. Alone. In my quiet house. Horny and free.
I decide to ignore my phone for now and head upstairs, already unbuttoning my blouse.
A hot shower. That's what I need. Something to wash away the stress of the day and clear my head.
I strip off my work clothes and leave them in a pile on the bathroom floor. It's something I never do, but today I don't care. I turn the shower as hot as it will go and step under the spray, letting the water beat down on my wings, my shoulders, and my neck.
Steam rises around me, and I close my eyes, tipping my head back.
My hands move over my body almost automatically, soaping, rinsing, working the tension out of my muscles.
But my mind wanders.
And so do my fingers.
My hand drifts lower, between my thighs, and I let out a shaky breath. It's been so long. So long since I let myself feel this. Since I let myself want. I touch myself slowly, my mind supplying images I've been trying not to think about all weekend.
Noah in nothing but a towel, water dripping down his chest.
Noah's hands on my waist, pulling me closer.
Noah's mouth trailing down my neck, my collarbone, lower to my breasts. And then lower and lower between my thighs.
My finger slips inside me, and I find myself wet, my clit buzzing with sensation as I brush over it, already sensitive. A soft moan escapes my throat, and I bite my lip to stifle it.
This is insane. I'm standing in my shower, fantasizing like some kind of desperate romance novel heroine.
But I can't stop.
And I need more.
I step out of the shower, my skin flushed and damp, and loosely wrap a towel around myself. My body is still humming, still aching for release. I can feel how wet I am, how needy.
I cross to my bed and let the towel fall open, then I lie back against the pillows. My hair is soaking into the fabric, but I don't care. I reach into my bedside drawer and pull out my vibrator. It's a simple, discreet device I haven't used in longer than I care to admit.
The low hum fills the quiet room as I turn it on, and I close my eyes, letting my mind drift back to Noah.
His hands. His mouth. The thought sends a jolt of heat through me, and I press the vibrator against my clit, my breathing quickening.
I'm so lost in the sensation, in the fantasy, that when my mouth opens, it's his name that slips out like a prayer I don't believe in.
"Noah…"
The sound is soft at first. Then I do it again, breathier, needier. Putting all my horniness into it.
"Noah."
Footsteps. A thud. A remote part of my mind registers it, but the flood of sensations coming from my clit overshadows it.
My bedroom door, which I forgot to fully close, pushes open a few inches.
"Noah," I call again, because I'm not thinking. I'm not thinking at all.
And then his voice answers, right outside my room, confused and close.
"Rika?" There's a pause, like he's adjusting his grip on something. "You called?"
My eyes fly open. My heart forgets to beat.
Noah stands in my doorway with a laundry basket in his arms, a stack of neatly folded towels perched on top like he's trying to keep his hands busy.
His gaze locks on mine.
Then it drops.
To my flushed skin. To my parted thighs. To the vibrator in my hand.
His entire body goes still, like someone hit pause.
"Oh, shit," I whisper, because there is no other sentence in the English language that fits this moment.
For a long, suspended second, neither of us moves.
I should be mortified. Should grab the towel, should cover myself, should demand he leave.
But I don't.
Instead, I watch as Noah's throat works when he swallows hard. His knuckles go white around the laundry basket handle. His hazel eyes lift back to mine, and they're dark and heated.
"Tell me to leave," Noah says, voice rough and strained. "Rika, if you want me to go, tell me now. Because if I stay—"
He doesn't finish the sentence.
He doesn't have to.
My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my fingertips, in every nerve ending in my body.
"I don't want you to leave."
For a heartbeat, he remains frozen in the doorway.
Then he's crossing the room in three long strides, dropping the laundry basket to the ground.
And then there's no uncrossing that line.