CHAPTER 7. Noah
I close my eyes and let my forehead rest against the cold tile as steam rises around me. Last night keeps replaying on a loop—the wine, the dark cottage, Connor’s hands on me, the heat that shot through me the second our lips touched.
Fuck.
I turn the water colder, hoping it might clear my head, or at least cool the heat that keeps flushing through my body every time I replay the kiss.
It was clearly Connor’s way of helping me make Rick jealous, of making this whole fake relationship feel real.
But the moment he kissed me, everything else disappeared.
Rick’s engagement announcement should be the thing tearing me apart right now. After three years together—three years of sneaking around, of empty promises about someday—he’s engaged to Cassidy Whitmore.
And yet here I am, unable to focus on any of that, because all I can think about is the way Connor backed me against the wall, the press of his hips against mine, the sound he made when I slid my hands under his shirt.
I squeeze shampoo into my palm too hard, and a blob slips down my arm.
My chest feels tight, my stomach hollow.
This wasn’t part of the plan. Connor was supposed to be a shield, a buffer, a way to get through this weekend with my dignity intact.
He wasn’t supposed to kiss me like that—like he meant it, like he wanted me—and I definitely wasn’t supposed to respond by getting instantly, embarrassingly hard.
I groan and scrub at my scalp too roughly, my nails dragging against my skin.
What must he think of me now? The awkwardness between us was impossible to miss once we finally pulled apart.
He practically bolted for the bathroom, leaving me standing there with an obvious erection and a head full of scrambled thoughts.
When he came out, we did that awful dance of getting ready for bed without looking at each other, which was bad enough. And now I have to face him in daylight.
Oh God.
The cold water isn’t helping. Nothing is helping.
Because the humiliating truth is that I lay awake for hours after Connor fell asleep, my body still thrumming with a need that wouldn’t go away no matter how many times I told myself it wasn’t real.
I barely slept at all, and when I finally gave up and got out of bed, Connor was still asleep beside me.
I rinse the shampoo from my hair, keeping my eyes closed as water streams down my face.
I could deal with it if this were only physical—a reaction to being kissed by someone who clearly knows what he’s doing after months of celibacy.
But the ache in my chest when Connor pulled away, the way I wanted to chase his mouth with mine, tells me it’s already more than that.
How did I let this happen?
This is a job for him. A favor for a neighbor. Nothing more. The kiss was just part of the act, a performance. But now I’ve made it weird by getting too into it, by crossing the line between pretending and wanting.
I shut off the water and dry myself off roughly, the towel harsh against my skin. The bathroom is thick with steam, the mirror completely fogged over—which feels appropriate, considering how clouded my thoughts are.
By the time this weekend is over, Connor will go back to being my neighbor.
We’ll nod at each other in the hallway, exchange pleasantries about the weather or the broken washing machine, and that’ll be it.
I’ll be stuck with another stupid, hopeless crush, and he’ll probably avoid me because I made things awkward.
I brush my teeth, get dressed in jeans and a blue henley, and try to prepare myself for facing Connor.
When I open the bathroom door, cool air hits my overheated skin. Connor is sitting on the edge of the bed in a gray T-shirt and boxer shorts, his hair mussed from sleep, one knee bent as he rubs a hand over his face.
“Morning,” he says, his voice rough. “You’re up early. Everything okay?”
I hesitate, my throat tight. “Yeah. Just didn’t sleep well.” I can’t meet his eyes. I’m too afraid he’ll see right through me—realize I replayed our kiss half the night and still haven’t stopped.
He was acting. I wasn’t. How pathetic is that?
Connor stands and stretches his arms over his head. “Bathroom free now?” he asks.
“All yours.” I step aside to let him pass, and he gives me a wider berth than necessary, like he’s being careful not to touch me.
My stomach sinks. So it is weird between us now. Great.
“Thanks,” he says, and slips into the bathroom, closing the door with a click that somehow sounds final.
I stand in the middle of the room, listening to the water turn on. Connor’s shower fills the silence, giving me a few minutes to pull myself together, to figure out how to act normal when all I can think about is the heat of his mouth, the solid press of his body against mine.
I sit heavily on the edge of the bed, dragging my hands through my damp hair. This is fine. Everything’s fine. I just need to get through today, get through this weekend, and then things can go back to normal. I can handle that. I’ve survived worse.
I pick up my phone and scroll mindlessly through Instagram, barely seeing any of it.
A shirtless actor. Milo’s story from some rooftop bar in Brooklyn.
An ad for a lamp I looked at once three weeks ago and definitely do not need.
I keep scrolling, my thumb moving on autopilot, but nothing sticks.
Even a post from the queer bookstore I follow—something about a new lesbian postmodern thriller—can’t pull me out of the loop in my head.
What do I even say to him now? Sorry I got hard when you kissed me? Sorry I made it weird? Sorry I’m apparently developing feelings for you when this is just a job to you? Or do I pretend nothing happened and sit here stewing in this awful soup of awkwardness?
The shower shuts off, and I straighten, suddenly hyperaware of every sound in the room. I rehearse casual lines in my head. Hey, ready for breakfast? Sleep okay? Nice weather today, huh?
God, I’m so fake.
I set my phone down and stand in the narrow space between the bed and the window. Outside, the lake is silver in the morning light, mist rising off the surface. It would be beautiful if I could focus on anything beyond the knot in my stomach.
I’m about to sit back down when I hear it—a soft, rhythmic thump against the wall. At first, I think Connor’s bumped into something while getting dressed. But the sound is coming from the other side of the room. Then comes something else.
A moan. Female.
My stomach drops.
Rick and Cassidy. In the next room. Having sex.
The thudding gets louder and louder, the headboard hitting the shared wall in a steady rhythm.
Then comes another moan, sharper this time, and Cassidy’s voice—“Oh God, Rick.” She’s not even being that loud, more breathless than anything, but it carries clearly enough that it might as well be happening in this room.
I clap my hands over my ears, but it barely helps. My chest tightens, something sick crawling up my throat. I move away from the wall, but the room is small, and there’s nowhere to go that the sound doesn’t reach.
“Yes, baby, right there—”
I want to scream. Bang on the wall. Tell them to shut the fuck up.
But what right do I have? They’re engaged.
This is normal. It’s not their fault the walls are paper-thin.
And if I do say anything, I’ll sound exactly like what Rick would probably love to think I am—a jealous ex who still can’t let go.
My thoughts start spiraling. Is Rick actually enjoying this? Did he always like women too? Was he bi the whole time and just never told me? Did he leave me because he wanted Cassidy specifically, or because being with a woman was easier than being with me?
I sink back onto the bed, my hands shaking. We were together for three years, and he always said it was complicated—that he just couldn’t be gay. I thought that meant his family, the pressure, all of it. But what if it meant something else?
What if I never really knew him at all?
The bathroom door opens, and Connor steps out in a cloud of steam. He’s fully dressed, his hair still damp, a towel draped around his neck. He stops when he sees my face, his expression shifting from neutral to concerned.
“What?” he asks quietly.
The sounds from the other room get louder. Cassidy’s moans climb higher, building toward something I absolutely do not want to hear the end of. Connor’s eyes flick toward the wall, and understanding settles over his face.
“Right,” he mutters.
I push myself off the bed and grab my phone. “Can we go?” I ask, my voice coming out tight and panicked. “My parents should be up already.”
Connor just nods, and we both move quickly, shoving our shoes on and stepping into the hallway.
We’ve barely made it out when Cassidy cries out—the unmistakable sound of climax—and I nearly stumble in my hurry to get away.
Connor catches my elbow to steady me, but I pull out of his grip, too raw for even that small touch.
He doesn’t say anything.
We go downstairs in silence and step out into the cool morning air. The temperature dropped overnight, and a light breeze ripples across the lake. In any other situation, it would’ve felt refreshing, but right now it just feels cold.
The walk to the Main Cottage stretches out in silence.
I can feel Connor looking at me every few steps, but I keep my eyes fixed ahead, too afraid of what he might see if I look back.
Inside my head, last night and this morning keep bleeding into each other until I can’t tell what’s twisting me up more—hearing Rick fucking Cassidy through the wall, or realizing that after Connor kissed me last night, I’m more upset by the fact that my fake boyfriend and I can’t be anything real.
“Noah,” Connor says at last as we reach the Main Cottage. “You okay?”