Chapter Fourteen
Vanessa
Call It What You Want To
Taylor Swift
By the time we leave the bookstore, the sun has started dipping lower over the city, painting everything in muted golds that Chicago somehow only gets for about twenty minutes before gray settles back in.
Neither of us mentions how long we stayed.
Or how neither of us made any real attempt to leave earlier.
Hayden carries the two books he bought me tucked beneath one arm despite the fact I offered twice to take them myself.
I know it’s a control issue. But it’s softer now; less suffocating. At least so far.
Cold air curls around us as we walk back toward my apartment, leaves skittering across the sidewalk ahead of us while weekend crowds move around us in slow clusters. And once again, he walks on the outside closest to the street. Some habits really don’t die.
“You know,” I glance toward him, shoving my hands deeper into the pockets of my coat, “most people would’ve let me carry my own books.”
His gaze slides toward me without slowing. “Most people wouldn’t have noticed your wrist starting to hurt halfway through the store.”
I blink once. Because of course he noticed that. “I hate that you still do that.”
“Notice things?” His brow jumps as he angles a glance at me.
“Anticipate things.”
A faint smile touches the corner of his mouth. “You used to like it.”
The honesty in that stirs at something I thought I had buried. Because he’s right. I did. Until it became too much. But this version of him? The version learning restraint instead of assuming entitlement to every inch of my life? That feels different. Dangerously different.
We stop outside my building a few minutes later, both of us slowing naturally like neither wants to be the first person to acknowledge the afternoon is ending.
The wind lifts strands of my hair again, and Hayden reaches out again to tuck them behind my ear, his hand settling against the side of my neck.
There’s something devastatingly familiar about the gesture now.
Not possessive. Not demanding. It’s just him.
“You’re thinking too hard again.”
His mouth curves slightly. “Occupational hazard when it comes to you.”
His thumb feathers once beneath my jaw, and God, that tiny touch somehow feels more intimate than the bookstore kiss did.
“I want to see you again.”
It’s not a question, but it’s not pressure either. Just certainty in what he wants. And maybe that’s what gets me. Because ten years later, Hayden still says things like they matter enough to become true.
“I’d like that.”
A quiet breath of what I think is relief leaves him before he steps closer. “Thursday?”
The day settles strangely in my chest. Because of course it does. Because I know that he knows. He knows about Spencer. The Gild. My Thursday’s with him. And suddenly it feels like I’m being tested.
Hayden watches me carefully enough that I know he notices the hesitation. And what caused it. His mouth tightens into a firm line before he speaks. “You’re busy.”
The statement carries no accusation. But I hear the shift underneath it anyway. The awareness.
“I have something Thursday, but I can do Friday.”
Something unreadable flickers through his expression before it smooths away again. He knows he has no right. He’s not in a position to make any demands or claims to me. And he knows objecting will only drive me away. He knows this more completely than anything else. “Friday then.”
And then, he kisses me again. Small this time.
It’s brief, but somehow no less dangerous.
His hand slides into my hair while his mouth brushes mine once, twice, like he’s trying to show restraint but fails just slightly at it.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine again.
“Go upstairs before I change my mind and follow you.”
Heat curls low in my stomach. “You say that like I’d stop you.”
His eyes darken immediately. And there it is. That tension again. It’s thick and filled with heat that’s loaded just beneath the surface. For one reckless second, I almost ask him upstairs. Almost . Instead, I step back, sliding the bag from his fingers to mine. “Goodnight, Hayden.”
His gaze drags over me one last time, slow enough that my pulse stumbles all over again. “Night, Nessa.”
I make it upstairs somehow. Vinny greets me at the door with loud indignation over the fact I apparently abandoned him for an entire afternoon, but even his dramatic meowing can’t distract me from the way my mouth still tingles.
Or from the fact that I’m smiling. Which is honestly becoming a problem.
My phone buzzes before I even finish changing into leggings and an oversized sweatshirt.
You forgot your bookmark.
A laugh slips out before I can stop it.
You mean, you stole my bookmark.
Borrowed.
That’s not how theft works.
Three dots appear almost immediately.
You kissed me twice in the bookstore. I think we’re past legal technicalities.
Heat blooms across my cheeks again. Ridiculous. This is entirely ridiculous, but I can’t contain the giggle that escapes as I type again.
You’re very smug for someone who got kicked out of a library at twenty-one.
Worth it.
The reply comes so fast it settles somewhere directly beneath my ribs. And somehow that becomes the rhythm of the next few days. Texts in between meetings. Late-night conversations neither of us intends to stretch as long as they do. Small moments that slowly stop feeling accidental.
By Wednesday night, hearing from him feels dangerously normal. And maybe that’s why Thursday sits so heavy in the back of my mind. Not because I don’t want to see Spencer. Because I know what I’m going there to do.
I sit on my couch late Thursday afternoon with my phone in one hand while Vinny sleeps beside my thigh. I glance down at Hayden’s latest text glowing against the screen.
You still busy tonight?
He’s checking. Checking to see if I’ve changed my mind.
Checking to see where we stand. He doesn’t know that I’ve already made up my mind.
That I’m only meeting Spencer tonight to explain to him that our arrangement needs to come to end.
But I don’t tell this to Hayden. This is something he doesn’t get to control.
I am. But very much looking forward to tomorrow.
He doesn’t text back. I have no idea what he’s thinking, but I’m sure it’s probably all the wrong things. Because somewhere between coffee and bookstores and kisses against dusty shelves, this stopped being harmless. Stopped being something from the past.
I glance toward the clock. 6:30. Gild waits downtown beneath dim lights and expensive whiskey and a conversation I should’ve had days ago. One I’m finally ready to have. Because Hayden Sloane walked back into my life and somehow made every other connection feel temporary.
The Gild feels different when I walk in.
Or maybe it’s because I know everything will be different after tonight.
The elevator doors slide open soundlessly onto the private floor, low music already threading through the air beneath muted conversations drifting from the lounge.
Warm amber light glows against dark marble and black velvet, the entire club humming with the same quiet decadence it always does.
Usually, walking in here settles something in me.
Tonight, I feel strangely detached from it all.
Like I’m already halfway somewhere else.
Oliver’s eyes find mine immediately from the bar as I step inside.
One dark brow lifts subtly in question, but he says nothing as I step up next to him.
A glass of wine slides onto the bar in front of me before I even ask. Control takes many forms. “Thank you.”
“You look nervous.”
I glance toward him as I lift the glass. “I don’t get nervous.”
A slow grin curves his mouth. “That’s adorable.”
I roll my eyes softly, but don’t argue. Because annoyingly enough, he’s not entirely wrong.
Spencer is already seated in the back corner of the lounge by the time I cross the room, one ankle resting over the opposite knee while he scrolls absently through something on his phone. Perfectly tailored charcoal suit. Expensive watch. Calm confidence. Predictable in the safest way possible.
His attention lifts the second he sees me approaching, his expression softens into something genuinely warm. “Vanessa.”
“Sorry I’m late.”
“You’re four minutes late. I’ll survive.”
I smile faintly as I slide into the chair across from him. And God, this should feel easier than it does. Spencer studies me for about three seconds before setting his drink aside completely.
“Well,” he leans back slightly, “this already feels like a breakup.”
A surprised laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “Am I that obvious?”
“You’re wearing the apologetic face.”
“I have an apologetic face?”
“You do tonight.”
That only makes me laugh harder, tension easing slightly from my shoulders for the first time since I arrived. Because this is exactly why I liked Spencer in the first place. There were never any games with him. No unnecessary complications, just honesty.
“I’m sorry.” I offer with a small frown.
“You don’t actually owe me that.”
“I feel like I do a little.”
His head tilts slightly as he watches me across the table. “Is it serious?”
The question lands softly. No accusation attached to it. And somehow that makes it worse. “I don’t know yet.”
“But you want it to be.” It’s not a question, because he already knows my truth better than myself.
I look down briefly at the stem of my wine glass before exhaling softly. “I think so.”
Something knowing settles into Spencer’s expression then. Not hurt exactly. More like confirmation. “The bassist.”
My eyes lift immediately. “You know about him?”
“Vanessa, half this club recognized him the second he walked in here the first night.” One corner of his mouth lifts. “Plus, Oliver may have mentioned he asked about you.”
Right. Fair enough. Heat creeps up the back of my neck anyway. Spencer reaches for his drink again, swirling the amber liquid once slowly before looking back at me.
“You’ve been somewhere else for weeks.”
“I didn’t mean to?—”
“I know.”
And he does. That’s the thing. Spencer isn’t angry because Spencer already understood long before I admitted it to myself.
“I’ll miss you,” he admits, calm and sincere. “You are one of the better parts of this place.”
Emotion tightens unexpectedly in my chest. “You too.”
He smiles softly. “I hope he deserves you.”
God. I really didn’t expect this conversation to make me emotional.
Spencer rises first a few minutes later, smoothing one hand down the front of his jacket while I reach for my clutch beside me.
Then his gaze shifts past my shoulder. And changes instantly.
But it’s not fear, not irritation, it’s recognition.
“Well,” amusement flickers slowly across his face as he looks toward whatever’s behind me, “This should be interesting.”
Every muscle in my body stills as I turn around. Hayden moves through the lounge like the room belongs to him. Dark gray jacket. Black shirt open at the throat. Storm filled eyes locked directly on me with an intensity that hits like a physical thing. Controlled only on the surface.
Oh shit. He thinks— oh my God, he thinks Spencer and I are leaving together. The realization lands instantly and completely. Hayden barely glances at Spencer as he reaches the table, his focus never fully leaving me even as tension rolls off him in heavy waves.
“Nessa.” His tone is low, controlled, and dangerously tight beneath the surface.
Spencer, somehow, looks seconds away from laughing. “You must be Hayden.”
Hayden’s gaze cuts toward him finally. Sharp enough to wound. Spencer remains entirely unbothered.
“I was just leaving.” Spencer’s tone cordial and polite.
“Good.” Definitely not friendly.
I rise slowly before either of them can turn this into something worse, placing one hand lightly against Hayden’s wrist. The reaction from him is instant as every inch of his attention snaps back to me. And there it is. That possessive instinct he tries so hard to cage.
“You’re upset.”
His jaw flexes once beneath the low light. “Should I be?”
“No.”
Spencer outright smiles into his whiskey now. Oh my God. This is actually amusing him. “I think I’ll spare both of you the awkward goodbye.” He reaches for his glass one final time before looking toward me again. “Take care of yourself, Vanessa.”
Then his attention shifts meaningfully toward Hayden. “Murdering me won’t be necessary, besides Oliver would hate the paperwork that it would involve.”
A quiet snort sounds from the bar. My eyes glance over at Oliver for just a second. Traitor. Spencer disappears toward the elevators a moment later, leaving silence hanging heavily between Hayden and me.
His eyes finally drop to my face, searching, calculating. Trying to determine how wrong he got this. I could explain it. I probably should. Instead, I slide my fingers slowly through his. His entire body stills.
“Take me to your room, Hayden.”
And just like that, the mood shifts completely.