Chapter 15
PIPER
Zach's sheets smelled like linen, cedar, and a lapse in judgment so epic it deserved its own apology fruit basket. The cotton currently wrapped around her bare legs was a whispered reminder of something dangerously close to intimacy.
Not that she was panicking.
Okay. Maybe a little.
Fine. Full-blown fire drill in her frontal cortex.
Panicking, deliciously sore, and currently turned on in an entirely unacceptable, post-orgasm, post-mistake, oh-no-I-slept-with-a-man-who-might-actually-be-a-human-cinnamon-roll kind of way.
Except cinnamon rolls didn't have hands like that. Or stamina like that. Or that distracted, half-sleepy smile he'd given her sometime around orgasm number four, which had shattered her bones and any pretense that this was casual.
She blinked up at the industrial ceiling, where big metal beams seemed to hold the building together on testosterone alone. Masculine. Unapologetic.
The light angling through his monster-sized windows painted everything in an irritating, soft-focus kind of peace—like morning itself was trying to seduce her into thinking this was fine.
Like she hadn't made a reckless, half-naked, wildly pleasurable mistake that now came with consequences that smelled like his shampoo.
Because her pillow? Smelled like him. Her thigh?
Draped over one of his like it'd paid rent there.
And his warm, stupidly sculpted arm that had no right being this comfortable was flung around her waist with the kind of easy possessiveness you only ever saw in late-night rom-coms or nightmare commitment scenarios.
So, this was definitely a morning.
As in… the morning. After.
Her heart thudded like it realized it was late to the accountability meeting.
She was tangled in Zach's bed, blinking against the invading daylight, absolutely, positively not spiraling.
Except, oh, yep, there went her brain. Lifting the lid on the Emergency Overthink Vault like it hadn't, only weeks ago, been declared off-limits.
The list rolled out, red-carpet style. Too intimate. Too fast. Too everything.
Too close to catching feelings.
She'd done the one thing she never did. She had let her guard down. Slipped. Twice. Okay, more like four and a half times if you counted the last one.
And worst of all was how good it had been.
Capital-G, write-about-it-in-her-journal good. Memoir chapter good.
"Tell no one, and yet somehow tell everyone" kind of good.
A groan escaped her before she could swallow it, and she immediately froze, eyes flicking sideways. Zach didn't stir. He simply breathed deep. His nose nuzzled near her neck like he had every intention of making this a cozy everyday thing. As if that was a thing they did now.
Which it very much was not.
Nope.
This was the point in the story where the heroine in her head had to get out before she accidentally started naming the dust bunnies and picturing what brand of dog food they'd buy together.
Time to disengage before this turned into a montage of Sunday farmers' markets and heartfelt label-making.
Even if the bed was warm.
Even if his arm tightened when she shifted.
Even if that scent seemed to whisper something dangerous like… stay.
She carefully lifted Zach's arm from her waist, pausing when he muttered something incomprehensible in his sleep and shifted onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow she'd just abandoned. Her escape window: officially open.
With the skill of a woman who had once escaped her ex-boyfriend's apartment using a series of rolled yoga mats as a noise buffer, Piper slipped from under the covers, padded barefoot across the fluffy rug, and gathered last night's scattered armor: bra from the lamp (eye roll), blouse tossed tastefully on the back of a chair, heels by the door, slacks still rumpled like they remembered things they shouldn't be allowed to remember.
She tiptoed to the bathroom, shutting the door behind her with a quiet, decisive click.
In the mirror, a woman who looked suspiciously like her stared back. But this person had a mess of sleep-tangled curls, remnants of yesterday's makeup whispering tales of glorious sins, and an excellent exfoliation routine.
"It was just sex," she told her reflection, which had the audacity to look both wrecked and radiant. "Great sex, sure. With an infuriatingly sweet underwear mogul. Not a big deal."
Direct eye contact, competent tone. That's how you assert dominance over your own emotional free fall.
Sex didn't imply vulnerability. Sex didn't imply commitment or butterflies or the fact that her chest kept remembering the exact way he'd called her bruised, not broken. That line hadn't been sex. That'd been seeing her. Understanding her.
It'd been truth dipped in charm with a side of trust, and heaven help her—for five seconds last night, she'd believed him.
And that was a problem.
She scrubbed her face with cold water and finger-combed her hair. Then she pulled on her slacks, buttoned her shirt, and reattached the mental shields she'd learned to snap into place back during her parents' last divorce.
Heart locked. Exit plan secured.
Back in the bedroom, Zach was probably still out cold, one leg flung haphazardly toward the far side of the bed in carefree post-romp glory. Unreasonably attractive. Completely unconscious.
Her stomach growled a long, low protest that earned a whispered, "Even my metabolism is fucking conflicted."
And naturally, that was when Zach showed. "I can help with your metabolism problem."
Startled, Piper spun around and—yep. There he was, not asleep.
No, he stood right freaking there. Arm on the doorjamb, his head tilted toward one muscular arm, lips curved in a sleepy, satisfied smile, deep-blue eyes still clouded from sleep but watching her like he was half a dream and half a memory and determined to become both.
"You're awake," she said, way too breezy.
"That's generally how talking works." He arched a brow. "Making a… what did you call it? Strategic exit?"
She shifted, clutching her shoes to her chest like they were a metaphor. "I've got a load of work."
He nodded slowly, not buying that version of the script for a second. "Is that really what you want to tell yourself?"
The words hung there, gentle but heavy.
She didn't answer.
Instead, she popped on her shoes, gripped the doorknob like it was her life raft, and tried to convince herself she wasn't cursed. Just un-caffeinated and confused.
Then she slipped out, pulled the door closed behind her, and left before she could do something ridiculous like climb back into that bed and stay.
* * *
Piper shoved open the apartment door with more enthusiasm than coordination, nearly stumbling over her own feet as she entered. Her keys clattered into the bowl by the door—okay, near the bowl—and she kicked it shut behind her with a little more force than strictly necessary.
She was still wearing last night's eyeliner, her phone was down to one percent, and her mouth tasted like she'd had to brush her teeth with her finger. Stellar choices, all around.
Shelby was already lounging on the couch in her usual throne-like sprawl, a vision of calm judgment wrapped in a plaid throw blanket.
"Shoes on in the house?" Shelby asked, lifting a steaming mug in her direction like it was holy communion. "Interesting."
Piper let her bag slide from her shoulder to the floor with a thud and collapsed onto the armchair like a disgraced minor royal.
"Don't start with me," she groaned. "I'm emotionally fragile and physically held together by the hope of coffee in my future."
Shelby raised an eyebrow but wordlessly extended the mug.
Piper reached for it like it was life itself. "I don't need commentary."
"I didn't say anything," Shelby said innocently. "Yet. But your hair says you did the thing. Your vibe says you caught feelings. Your whole aura is screaming mild existential crisis at me."
Piper groaned and sipped the coffee. "It was a one-time thing."
"Is that why you look like you're both ten minutes late for brunch and one epiphany away from a full-blown wedding planner breakthrough?"
"I can't catch feelings. I can't," she insisted, hoping more caffeine would hold the key to what she should do next. "He's the bride's brother. He has dimples and a magnetic spice rack, Shelby."
"Oh no. A spice rack?" Shelby gasped, overdramatic. "Someone fetch the elopement schedule; it is time to panic."
Piper set the mug down, not even caring about a coaster.
Then she flopped sideways, covering her face with the throw blanket. "It was everything I can't have."
Shelby pulled the blanket down and then moved the mug to a coaster for her. "You mean… warm, respectful, great in bed, and very emotionally present?"
"That's not the point."
"Then what is the point?"
"The point is," Piper said, sitting up, "I need to refocus. Anna's wedding—remember that whole career thing? The one that doesn't involve admitting I have the emotional bandwidth of a charging battery still at 2%?"
Shelby scoffed. "You didn't get caught up. Girl, you dove right in."
"And that's exactly how you drown."
Shelby eyed her. "Or it's how you plan. With intention. With heart."
Piper wasn't buying it, and Shelby could clearly tell.
"There's no curse, Piper. That's a story you use to stay safe."
Piper didn't answer.
Not out loud.
And Shelby didn't force the issue. But twenty minutes later, when Shelby headed to her shift, Piper opened her laptop and Googled:
Signs you're the problem in relationships
Then:
How to break a curse without a priest
Then:
Is emotional sabotage genetic?
She clicked into a wellness blog post titled: You're Not Cursed, You're Attracted to Anarchy.
She noped right out of that browser window. On that note, she slammed the laptop shut. She was officially allergic to optimism. Especially the kind cross-contaminated with internet self-help blogs and almond-laced edible glitter.
And as if the universe didn't love irony, her phone buzzed.
Zach: Hey. My family has a dinner thing tonight to celebrate Anna and Drake's engagement being official. You should come. Low-key. A good chance to talk to Anna and Drake sans Tess.
The typing dots teased for a moment.
Zach: And yes, I want you there. That's part of it too.
She started to type thank you, no.
Except this was a moment. A choice. A step.
Can we have sex after? she typed automatically.
Then deleted it.
Instead, she inhaled. Long. Steady. Then:
Piper: Sure.
It wasn't a declaration. It wasn't a promise.
But it was open.
And that, maybe, was more terrifying than any curse.
Still. She pressed send. Smiled.
And let hope sneak in just a little. Unexpected glitter in a handshake. That's all this was.
Because maybe, just maybe, she didn't have to run.
Not this time.