Chapter 14
PIPER
Zach's loft shouldn't have surprised her. But, like everything about him, it did.
From the outside, Wild Sacks HQ was exactly what you'd expect. An industrial grandpa of a building sandwiched between shiny condos and edgy restaurants.
But inside—after Zach keyed them in like he was opening a secret lair, nodded to a mural with his company's logo of a super-buff squirrel wearing underwear with acorn nuts on them, and marched her up concrete stairs straight out of a gritty cop show—it turned into a whole different beast.
His apartment was peak industrial nonsense with raw brick walls that looked like they'd witnessed a hundred failed startups.
And yet. The man had pulled it off.
His kitchen was legit, not a breakroom, and the living room looked lived-in, not like a waiting area.
Functional, sure. Masculine, obviously. But not at all the frat house disaster she'd braced for.
"Well," Piper said, taking it all in, "this is not horrifying."
He laughed, tugged off his jacket, and slung it over the back of the sofa. "I do try to keep the murder-aesthetic to a minimum."
Since she was wildly committed to her reputation as a responsible adult, she sent Shelby a heads-up that she was still with Zach. Then she kicked off her heels gently, and lined them up by the door.
She couldn't exactly lose a shoe and have to pull some covert Cinderella act later, probably in front of the world's most judgmental cat.
"Do you have a cat?" she asked.
He shook his head. "No. Why?"
"Absolutely no reason at all," she said as Zach strolled to the fridge, grabbed two cans of lemon-lime sparkling water, and came back.
"How long have you lived here?" she asked.
"Since I got a loan to buy the building, I couldn't keep paying rent.
" He shrugged. "It can be annoying when work is right outside my door, or I've got the flu, and the employees still know I'm home.
There are zero boundaries—but it works, you know?
" He held out the sparkling water, and she accepted it because it was one less decision she had to make.
"Thanks," she said.
He gestured at the couch. "Sit anywhere."
She collapsed onto the sofa with a groan. She wouldn't be shocked if there was a Piper-shaped dent left behind when she finally got up.
Zach joined her, carefully giving her space. Not nuzzling, not making quippy banter, not even a suggestive twitch.
Just two people marinating in the afterglow of half a dozen almosts and one definitely illegal kiss.
The long moment stretched into two. No music, no TV, only the pensive glug-glug of the fridge and the two of them just existing together.
"I don't do this," she blurted, the words tumbling out. "The part after the not-date. The part where you roll the dice and someone turns out to be, I dunno, real. Not just a future anecdote for my next girls' night."
He didn't cut in, didn't rush with reassurance. He waited. Did the whole giving her space without making her feel like she had to do a tap number to fill it.
Honestly, it helped. Which also made it a hundred times more terrifying.
She scowled at the suspiciously distressed coffee table. "Can I say something absolutely, one million percent ridiculous?"
"Yeah. Always."
She didn't look at him as she said, "Every time I so much as think I could maybe, possibly be happy?
The universe gets bored and snatches the popcorn.
Like, 'Here you go, Piper, have a little hope'—and then, boom.
Mom gets on with divorce number four. The bridesmaid just slept with the groom.
" She could feel a laugh trying to launch itself up her throat, except it did a U-turn somewhere near her tonsils.
"I break things, Zach. I walk into anything good with relationships and poof—disaster confetti. I'm practically a walking curse."
She meant it as a joke. Or at least as that reliable old scar you poke just to see if it still stings. But her voice betrayed her, cracking right down the middle. For the first time, she couldn't chase it away with a laugh and a wink.
He said nothing for a second, just staring with those annoyingly stable blue eyes.
"You're not cursed," he said. Then he paused, like he needed to remember how breathing worked.
"And you're not broken." He reached over, resting his hand on hers, light as a feather but warm enough to melt chocolate. "You're just believably bruised."
Suddenly the joke wasn't a joke at all. Nope, it was a scab he lifted with impossible gentleness.
She tried to smile, but her face only managed the kind that hurts. "That's way worse, you know."
He didn't let go. Instead, he moved into her space, took the sparkling water and set it on the coffee table.
He didn't even use a coaster.
Then his hand was against her jawline, and he brushed his lips against hers.
"Being bruised shows you've fought through hard times and kept going," he said, kissing her. "It means you stuck it out when most people would've noped right out."
He laid his forehead against hers, and the silence that followed felt heavier than usual. Every cell in her wanted to run, crack a joke, do literally anything but stay put.
But instead of running, she whispered, "I don't know what you want from me, Zach."
He leaned in just a tick. "I want what you're willing to give. I want to kiss you. But only if you want me to."
She let out a laugh that came out all wet and hiccupy and mortifying, and squeaked, "I do."
His hand stayed at her cheek, sliding up into her hair, gripping it in a way that made her melt right into him. Then his body was over hers and this kiss was nothing like the closet.
The universe shrank to the heat of his mouth and the rough scrape of his thumb along her neck. The impossible safety of being right where she wanted to be with him made her wet.
Yup, there was not a single part of her that wanted to file a complaint with corporate. Hesitation melted into permission, and permission opened the door to everything else. She kissed him back.
Okay, fine, she basically attacked him.
At first, it was all trembling hands and what-am-I-doing nerves, but then those melted right into oh-yes-please permission.
And permission?
That was buy-one-get-the-entire-catalog-free, because suddenly, anything felt possible and Piper tossed her last bit of caution over her shoulder like an unwanted bra.
He reached for the hem of her shirt with all the reverence of a man about to unwrap his favorite holiday gift.
One slow tug, and it came right off.
His hands trailed along her bare sides to the spot between her legs, pressing there before unbuttoning her slacks and pulling them down.
Then with a grin that said oh-sweetheart-I've-got-this he kissed her over the fabric of her panties, looping his finger there to pull them aside and press his lips exactly where she craved him.
A low hum started in her throat—the same sound she'd made with the bread.
He chuckled.
Then he righted her underwear and kissed his way back up her body. Her hands played with his hair as he skillfully popped the clasp of her bra and flicked it—yes, flicked it—onto the nearest lamp like some triumphant lingerie flag.
"Seriously?" she said, breathless and half-laughing, "You're undressing me like you've been waiting for this moment your whole life."
He grinned, eyes wicked and dark as sin. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
This wasn't some frenzied groping behind a bar; this was deliberate and she practically sizzled everywhere he touched.
She aimed for a joke—something sassy about HR policies and CEOs of startups—but when her mouth moved, all that'd come out was a strangled little gasp that sounded desperately wanton.
"You're gorgeous," he muttered, words half-mumbled against her skin. "Not even fair, Piper."
"Oh, you noticed?" She managed a laugh, then groaned as he kissed her again.
Her hips jolted, a needy little whimper slipping out.
"Get inside me," she practically begged. "Now, Zach, please."
So much for keeping it classy.
But even her pride had run for cover with the underwear he removed so deftly.
He didn't even smirk, which would have been less mortifying than the deep, guttural groan that rumbled out of him, breath rough as sandpaper against her ear.
"Fuck, you're—Piper, you're so ready for me."
"Don't sound so surprised, Charming. This is kind of your fault."
His lips curved up against hers, and he said, "Okay, Cinderella, let's see what else I can take credit for," before lowering his head to her breast, tongue teasing her nipple until she arched back, her own hands knotted in his hair.
"Oh my God—right there—" she gasped as he sucked, gentle at first and then with more hunger. She tried to be witty; what came out was an embarrassing, "You're really good at that."
He grinned at her, all cocky and pleased.
How was he still totally clothed, and she was nearly one orgasm in?
"Don't get cocky—oh." Her words had dissolved as the two fingers inside her curled just so and her whole body went taut. She clamped a hand over her mouth and he pried it away gently, kissing her palm.
"Don't," he whispered. "I want to hear you."
Then he worked her patiently, expertly, as she tried to keep up some shred of dignity and failed spectacularly. Her thighs started to shake, hips stuttering against his hand.
She gritted out, "If you don't get inside me in the next two seconds, I swear—"
He laughed, deep and low, fished a condom from his wallet, set it on the table, and pulled his clothes off. Tearing the foil, he rolled the condom on with one hand, braced the other on the back of the sofa, and studied her face as though waiting for permission.
"Yes," she breathed, and he slid in—slow at first, stretching, filling—until her gasp broke on his name.
He rocked his hips, starting a slow rhythm that turned her bones to jelly. She dragged her nails down his back, biting his shoulder when he hit that perfect spot inside that made stars explode behind her eyes.
His voice had gone rough when he said, "Do the nail thing again."
She did as he asked because she totally could take direction. In return, he gave exactly what she needed. Hard, deep strokes, rough in all the right ways.
She tangled her legs around his waist, meeting each thrust with her own, lost to the crash and pull.
"That's it, baby, come for me," he urged, breath hot and desperate.
She shattered for him, everything clenching impossibly tight as pleasure took over—no dignity, no sass, just raw, broken cries as she came apart.
He followed with a curse and a groan, holding her tight.
"Thank you," she mumbled against his lips.
He laughed, breathless, tugging her closer. "That's my line."
He grinned into her hair, then stood up and handled the condom.
The deeply inappropriate but highly attractive idea of doing that all over again bubbled up in her mind.
Inappropriate. This was inappropriate.
Of course, he sensed that moment of hesitation from her. Of course he did.
"You're allowed to want this thing happening between us. It's not a curse. It's just us," he said, like this—her, them—was a gift. Not a ticking clock on some inevitable heartbreak she hadn't scheduled but definitely expected.
"Just us," she echoed, wishing it could be true.
Later, after he carried her to the bedroom, they lay tangled up beneath crisp sheets that still smelled like detergent and danger.
He traced lazy patterns across her back. They didn't talk. They just breathed.
At some point—time went fuzzy when a girl kept coming—when they snuggled tight in his bed, her head tucked beneath his chin, her hand parked firmly over the steady beat of his heart like it belonged there.
He kissed her hair. Tightened his arms around her like she was something that mattered, not something temporary.
No declarations. Just safety soft as sunrise and every bit as dangerous.
When she woke with sunlight slicing through the windows and his arms wrapped around her like a human exclamation point, she just…lay there. Cocooned. Warm. One broad hand still resting at her waist like he chose her even in sleep, like his subconscious was all in.
Her brain, being the unhelpful little gremlin it was, immediately began counting the ways this could fall apart.
Don't fall.
Don't believe this is real.
Not for you.
But beneath the usual buzzing panic, something new stirred. Something quieter. A tug forward, a thread glinting in the dark.
But what if it is real?