Chapter 10
You weren’t just a temp to him. And you weren’t just a temp to us.
I’ve read them at least twenty times. It hasn’t gotten easier.
Bren’s voice is in my head. The one from Wednesday when he told me his wife died, and that they’d been trying for a baby. That he hasn’t let himself want anything since.
Weeks. All those weeks, he was showing me the man he used to be, and I called it an arrangement. I called it the best temp job I’ve ever had.
I suck.
I pull my knees in tight. The apartment is dead quiet; my heartbeat is loud in my ears with nothing to drown it out. I’ve spent my entire adult life avoiding the fact I’m not the staying kind. I joke that people find me charming in small doses, but I never give them the chance to like more.
It’s all bullshit. Every word of it.
And then when a man I actually want asks me to stay, I set his anklet on the desk and walk out because I can’t let myself say yes.
And I want his kitchen.
Not—okay, I want him too, obviously. I want him so much it qualifies as a medical condition.
But that’s not what’s keeping me awake. I’m awake because I want to know which mug is the one he reaches for when he’s groggy and hasn’t had his first cup of coffee.
I want to cook pasta on his stupidly expensive range and have him come up behind me and kiss my neck.
That’s how I know I’m done for. It’s 2 in the morning, and I’m aching to know which mug is his. A mug.
But Bren already fought for me. He told me the whole bleeding truth of himself, and I left. This is the man who fed me protein bars like they were his love language and made sure I drank more water before bed.
He hasn’t texted me. The silence means he’s letting me go.
I have to fix this if it’s not too late. God, what if it’s too late? What do I even say? Sorry I walked out, can I have my anklet back, I’m an idiot. Ugh, I don’t know. I just know I have to try.
Since I don’t want to storm over there at 3 a.m. like a crazy person, I try to sleep. It doesn’t really work, and by morning, I’ve written six texts to Bren and deleted all of them.
By 10 a.m. I’m done being the woman who can’t compose a coherent message. I need to see him. I just hope I figure out the perfect thing to say by the time I get there.
I toss on the nearest pair of jeans and a clean t-shirt. Right before I walk out of my apartment, I look at the boxes one more time. They’re fear with packing tape on them, and I’ve spent years calling that freedom and feeling proud of myself for packing light.
I want to take a box cutter to every single one. And I will. No matter what happens at Bren’s, I’m going to unpack them.
I have never been this brave in my life, and I might throw up, but I’m doing it anyway.
My hands shake the entire twelve-minute drive. I park and sit there longer than I’d admit to anyone, white-knuckling the wheel. The elevator in his building takes twenty-seven seconds. I count all twenty-seven, like that’s going to help.
His door is solid wood. My mouth is so dry it clicks when I swallow.
I lift my hand to knock and pause.
What if he slams the door in my face? Or worse, stares at me coldly and listens to whatever I’m going to say that I definitely didn’t figure out yet, and then tells me to leave?
I fight the urge to turn around and run, and I’m not going to be that person. It’s my turn to fight.
I knock.
Nothing happens for ten seconds. I count those too.
He’s not coming. Or he saw it was me through the peephole and decided not to come.
Or—oh god—what if he’s not even home, what if he’s at the office on a Saturday because he can’t be here either.
What if I drove twelve minutes to knock on an empty door?
My lungs quit on me. I’ll wait until I’m in the car to cry. I can make it to the car, I think—
The lock turns, and the door swings open.
Holy fuck, Rachel was right. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days.
His hair is wet from a shower. He’s in gray sweatpants and a plain t-shirt—I’ve never seen him out of a suit unless he was naked.
His jaw is dark with four days of stubble.
His eyes are dull, and he looks numb. On any other man, it would read as a rough week. On Bren, it guts me.
The last four days in my apartment suddenly feel like a luxury spa compared to whatever he’s been living through.
He stares at me.
“Lily.”
Just my name. Every line I tried to compose this morning disappears. My brain hands me the only line I didn’t rehearse.
“I want this. Not just the arrangement or job. You.”
He goes very still and drags in a breath. Then he steps back and opens the door wider. I walk through before he can change his mind.
His condo smells like coffee. There are dishes piled on the coffee table, a blanket and pillow shoved into the corner of the couch like a nest. He’s been sleeping out here. The same way I’ve been sleeping at home.
The door clicks shut behind me. Three feet between us, and he isn’t saying anything. He isn’t saying anything, and if I stop talking, I’ll run. I’m never doing that to him again.
“I shouldn’t have left on Wednesday.” The words tumble out.
“I—sorry. I heard everything you said. I did. I just couldn’t take it in because I kept running every word through every time I’ve been the temporary person before, and that’s—that’s the whole list. Every job.
Every—and when you told me you were choosing me, my brain kept saying he’s confusing good sex for real feelings, because that was easier than—” My voice catches, and I make myself say the rest. “Easier than believing I was worth keeping.”
He brings a hand up and brushes his fingers along my cheek like he can’t believe I’m real.
“I’m here,” I blurt. “And staying. I—sorry, I’m doing this wrong. I almost didn’t get out of the car. I sat there for—and then I almost didn’t knock, and then I did, and you opened it, and you haven’t said anything, and I—I’m staying. If you’ll have me. I’d understand if you—”
My hands won’t stop shaking. I press them flat against my thighs to hide it. Here I am, panic-spiraling at the man I walked out on. I’m a disaster.
His jaw unlocks, and he closes the gap in one move. He grabs my shirt and yanks me into his chest. His other hand cups the back of my head, and his mouth comes down on mine.
Four days of nothing slams into me at once. I make a sound against his mouth I don’t recognize. His lips are hard against mine, and I’m kissing him back like I can erase the time I was gone. My fingers fist in the front of his t-shirt. He tastes like coffee. He tastes like Bren.
He slows the kiss down. His lips move against mine until my whole body aches. I press into him, my hands flat against his chest. His heartbeat under my palm is hammering, and underneath it he’s trembling.
The kiss deepens again. His tongue slides against mine, and time blurs. Four days was an eternity.
He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against mine. His breathing is unsteady and his eyes are closed, his hands still on my face.
“I was going to let you go,” he says. His voice is rougher than I’ve ever heard it. “If that’s what you needed.”
“I know.” My hands slide up to his shoulders. “That’s why I’m here.”
His eyes open, and his expression is so naked it makes my chest go tight. His expression says he didn’t think I’d come back.
He kisses me again, softer this time. His hands slide from my face down my neck, thumbs tracing my collarbones, then lower, skimming my waist through the cotton of my shirt. Every brush of his hand says he can’t quite believe he gets to still touch me.
I push up the hem of his t-shirt, and my fingers fumble.
Of course they do—they shook through the whole drive over.
Why would they pull it together now? He covers my hands with his and helps me get it over his head.
The shirt drops to the floor. I press my mouth to the center of his chest. He smells like his citrus soap, and I could eat him up right now.
A flush starts below my collarbone, and wet heat flares between my legs.
“Bedroom,” I say against his skin.
He grabs my hand and pulls me down the hall. His mouth is back on mine before we get there, harder this time, and my back hits the wall in the hallway. We stumble into the bedroom, but I don’t see the room. I see him.
He yanks the hem of my t-shirt up, and I lift my arms. The shirt goes. The bra goes—my hands or his, I’m not sure. I’m reaching for the waistband of his sweats when he catches my wrist.
His mouth drops to my breast. Oh god. His mouth on me after four days of nothing is almost too much. His stubble rasps against the sensitive skin and his hands slide around my waist, pulling me hard against him.
Then he sinks to his knees in front of me, and he presses his forehead against my stomach.
His arms wrap around my hips and hold on.
The gesture is so unguarded that my hands go to his hair on instinct, fingers threading through the dark strands.
I hold him against me while he breathes deeply.
I don’t say anything, I just stroke his hair.
When he stands, the frantic part has passed. His hands are steady as he unbuttons my jeans and slides them down. My panties too. He strips off the rest of his clothes quickly.
The last time he was naked in front of me, I was scared of staying. Today I drove across town to stay.
He lays me down on the bed. The sheets are cool against my back as he settles over me, his weight braced on his forearms. He looks at me. His cock is hard against my thigh, hot through the bare contact, and the friction sends a zing straight to my clit. My hips shift before I tell them to.
“Green,” I whisper, before he asks.
His mouth tugs up, the smallest version of his smile, the first one in days.
He kisses me, and his hand slides between us, fingers tracing through my folds, spreading the wetness. I gasp against his mouth, and every nerve ending zings alive at once.