Chapter 18 She Calls Me Comfy and I Get Hard #2
"Where's your car?"
"I don't have a car," I reply.
Her eyes widen. "You just WALK everywhere?"
I resist the urge to pat her head. "No. I have a bike."
She scrunches her face. "Like, with pedals?"
I chuckle. "No. Like with an engine."
Her eyes widen. "You have a motorcycle?"
"Yeah. A Ducati."
Then suddenly she sighs dramatically.
"What is it?" I ask her.
She points at me unsteadily. "Amanda said you had to ride something dangerous. She bet me twenty dollars. I just lost twenty dollars."
"And what exactly did you think I drove?"
She waves her hand dismissively, nearly losing her balance in the process.
"Details, details." Then her expression shifts, suddenly serious in that exaggerated way drunk people get when they've just had an important thought.
"My Nonna would have a heart attack if she knew I was friends with a guy on a death machine. "
I bite back a laugh. "Death machine?"
"That's what Nonna calls them." She nods solemnly, then reaches up to pat my cheek. Her touch lingers on my skin. "Gonna need to get you Nonna's rosary."
I still. "What?"
"Nonna's special rosary," she explains, leaning heavily against me. "The one with the—the blue beads. S'posed to keep you safe. She gave it to me when I started driving. Always worked for me." She taps my chest with her finger. "You need it more. Death machine guy."
Something in my chest tightens at her drunken concern. "You'd give me your Nonna's rosary?"
She nods again, more emphatically this time. "Course. Can't have you dying on that thing." Her voice drops to a whisper, like she's telling me a secret. "I kinda like having you around, Callahan."
Before I can process that—or the warmth spreading through my chest—she suddenly gets a second wind.
"Okay, I'm gonna change," she announces, perking up. Before I can react, her hands are at the hem of her dress.
I freeze.
"Whoa—Izzy."
She shimmies the fabric up her thighs, her fingers inching higher.
Oh, fuck no.
I grab the door handle, shove it open, and all but push her inside.
She laughs, stumbling forward.
Then, with zero shame, she reaches back, grabs the zipper of her dress, and starts dragging it down.
I slam the door shut.
Hard.
My jaw is so fucking tight I think I might break a tooth.
Jesus Christ.
I press my forehead against the door, inhaling deep, slow, measured breaths. The wood is cool against my skin, pulling me back from the edge—just enough. I need to get my shit together.
Because now I'm in her apartment.
Now I'm in her space.
And everything smells like her. The vanilla and floral scent that clings to her skin seems to permeate the entire apartment, filling my lungs with every breath. I push off the door and make my way toward her.
"You, there," I say, nudging her into her bedroom, guiding her in before she can get herself into even more trouble.
She stumbles forward, laughing under her breath.
And fuck me, I want to follow.
I want to step inside, close the door, press her up against it.
I want to drag that dress off her myself.
Take my time with it. Undo the zipper slowly, feel her shiver under my hands, let my fingers trace every inch of bare skin I reveal.
Jesus.
I grip the doorframe tighter.
Not tonight.
Not like this.
"You get decent," I tell her, voice gruffer than I mean it to be.
She half-turns, lazily lifting a brow. "Define decent."
I shut the door in her face.
Hard.
Her laugh rings out from the other side, muffled but unmistakable.
I scrub a hand down my face, forcing myself to back away, to put distance between me and the very, very stupid ideas forming in my head.
No way. Not tonight.
Not when she's drunk off her ass and stripping like it's my own personal test of restraint.
I turn back toward the living room, my pulse still pounding. Izzy's place is exactly what I expected and also nothing like I expected.
It's small, but it's comfortable. Cozy. The apartment has character—high ceilings typical of older Hoboken buildings, large windows that likely offer a view of the Manhattan skyline during the day.
Family photos line the walls, many showing what must be her Italian family—brothers, parents, and an elderly woman who has to be the Nonna she mentioned.
It smells like her. Vanilla and coconut. Unmistakably Izzy.
And it's fucking with my head.
Because now I'm in her space.
Now I'm standing in her living room, looking at the blanket tossed over the couch, the half-read book on the coffee table. Now I'm too close, and she's just past that wall, stripping out of her dress and crawling into bed.
Jesus.
I need to get out of here.
But, the universe hates me because as soon as I have that thought, I hear her call out my name, as clear as day.
I step into her bedroom, and she's already half-buried under the covers, blinking up at me, completely boneless.
"You should sleep with me," she slurs.
My brain misfires.
I just stare at her.
"What?"
"Sleep with me," she repeats, patting the bed. "You're all big and warm. It'll be nice."
Big and warm.
Jesus Christ.
"No," I say, far too quickly.
She pouts again. "Why not?"
Because I'm already walking a razor's edge with you, sweetheart.
Because I already can't stop thinking about how soft you are, how good you feel pressed against me.
Because if I get in that bed with you, I won't sleep.
Because I will think about touching you all fucking night.
"I'm not leaving you alone like this," I say instead. "But I'll sleep on the couch."
She blinks at me, slow and drowsy. Then, to my absolute fucking horror, she smiles.
Like I just said something sweet.
Like she likes that I won't leave her alone.
Like she wants me here.
I swallow hard. "Go to sleep, Izzy."
She sighs, curling into her pillow.
I force myself to back out of the room.
To close the door.
To walk away from her.
I sit on the couch, drop my head back, exhale.
I need to get a grip.
She's just through that wall.
Sleeping.
Drunk and reckless, and so fucking sweet it hurts.
I let my eyes close.
My phone vibrates.
I don't even need to look.
I already know what it is.
She just messaged Caleb.