15.
Important Author's Note ??
Hi guys, this chapter and many of the ones coming up includes themes around poor body image, control in relationships, and how that kind of stuff can mess with the way you see yourself.
Naomi is a character who is learning how to reclaim her voice and her autonomy after years of living within a relationship that made her feel small.
Some of the thoughts she has throughout the story particularly around her body reflect that conditioning.
They are NOT meant to glorify those ideas, but to show the quiet ways they can take root in someone's mind.
Also, this story is a challenge for me as a writer.
I usually write FMCs who are a little like myself and they're not as outspoken and way more passive and conforming, but with Naomi I really wanted to explore what it looks like to slowly grow into your power—your choices, your voice, your confidence.
My goal is for Naomi to be a completely different woman by the end of this book.
I really want Naomi to be for those who are still figuring themselves out and growing.
Sorry for the delay on this update—I hope you guys enjoy.
···
It's been two months.
Two months of Thursdays carved out just for us.
Alexander from Secret Service doesn't ask questions anymore. Vivian "coincidentally" keeps my schedule light during a four-hour window every week. Grant "just happens" to take a long lunch break on Thursdays.
I'm stretched out on his couch, my legs draped across his lap, close enough to his belt that I'm aware of the space between us.
He has his laptop balanced on his knees, answering emails like he's focused.
He's not.
"Caught in the Act: Unfaithful" plays on the TV.
Grant pretends he's not listening.
He is.
The episode ends with a dramatic music swell.
Grant finally looks up.
"You know," he says casually, "this is exactly how we'd get caught."
I squint at him. "Excuse me?"
"Hidden camera. Dramatic reveal. Rodney barging in with a camera crew."
He laughs, but I don't.
"That's not funny."
His grin softens, but his hand keeps moving — slow, absent strokes up and down my calf.
It's hard to stay annoyed when he's touching me.
Grant's laptop stays open on his knees for another few minutes after the show ends, the blue light reflecting faintly across his glasses while he scrolls through emails.
I know he's not really paying attention to them anymore — he hasn't typed anything in a while — but he keeps the screen open anyway, like he's pretending to still be responsible.
My legs are stretched across his lap, my ankles hooked loosely together near his hip.
Finally, he closes the laptop.
"Give me one second," he says, gently lifting my legs off his lap.
He sets them back on the couch with the same care he does everything else before standing and heading toward the pantry.
I twist slightly on the couch to watch him. He rummages around for a moment, shifting things on the shelf before pulling something out and turning toward me.
He holds up a burgundy bag.
"Have you ever had these?"
I sit up, tucking my legs underneath me as he walks back over.
He drops the bag into my hands.
White truffle potato chips.
I raise a brow at him. "No."
"They're good," he says simply. "Try one."
I hesitate longer than I should.
Rodney would absolutely hate this.
The thought flickers through my head automatically — calories, sodium, measurements — the long list of things I'm supposed to consider before putting something in my mouth.
"I probably shouldn't," I say. "We had pizza earlier."
Grant leans one shoulder against the back of the couch, arms folding loosely across his chest.
"It's one chip," he says.
I narrow my eyes at him.
He doesn't budge.
I sigh dramatically and open the bag. "Fine."
I pull one out and bite into it.
The flavor hits immediately — rich, salty, ridiculous.
I pause mid-chew.
Grant watches me carefully.
"These are really good," I admit.
His mouth curves.
"You can keep them."
I give him a flat look.
"You're not slick."
"What?" he asks innocently.
"This is the third week in a row you've 'found' a snack in your pantry," I say, holding up the bag. "I try it. Then somehow I end up leaving with it."
He shrugs.
"And every time I bring something for you to try you like," he says with a shrug, "Why wouldn't I let you have it."
I stare at him.
I set the bag down on the coffee table.
"Come here," he says.
The words are quiet, but I lift my arms instinctively.
He steps forward and pulls me up from the couch, his hands sliding around my waist as I hook my legs around him. My arms slip around his neck easily, the motion so natural now that it still surprises me.
It still feels strange — being able to hold someone like this without bracing for impact.
I tuck my face into his neck.
He smells warm and clean, a faint trace of cologne that I've started to associate entirely with Thursdays.
His hands slide under my thighs to steady me as he shifts his weight.
"You okay?" he murmurs near my temple.
I nod against his shoulder.
But my fingers tighten slightly in the back of his shirt.
When I lift my head, he's already looking at me.
Focused.
Present.
I lean in first.
The kiss starts slow — just a brush of lips, soft and careful but the second he exhales against my mouth something shifts between us.
His mouth opens slightly.
Mine follows.
His tongue slides against mine once, slow and exploratory, and my stomach flips so hard I feel it all the way down my spine.
My fingers slip into his hair.
He makes a low sound in his throat — barely there — and his hands tighten where they're holding me.
I press closer instinctively.
He turns and walks around the back of the couch, still holding me against him, before lowering himself back into his spot.
I'm still wrapped around him when he settles in.
Straddling his lap now instead of hanging off his side.
My breathing is uneven when I pull back.
His hands move up to my scalp, fingers sliding gently through my hair as he starts massaging the base of my head.
It's a habit now.
Something he does when he thinks I'm overthinking.
"What's going on in that head?" he asks quietly.
I pull back just enough to look down at him.
My knees are pressed into the couch on either side of his hips, my hands resting loosely against his shoulders.
I shake my head.
"Nothing."
He watches me for a second.
I reach down and trace my thumb lightly along the curve of his cheek.
God, he's handsome.
Being this close to him still feels unreal sometimes.
I lean down and give him two quick pecks.
"What's your dad like?" I ask suddenly.
His eyebrows lift slightly at the change of subject.
"My dad?"
"Yeah."
He lets out a small breath, thinking.
"He's... the opposite of my mom."
I tilt my head.
"How?"
"My mom likes structure," he says. "Not in a strict way, but she's always been really career-focused. She built her whole life around her work. Which honestly was kind of unusual for when she was growing up, but she thrives on it. She likes routine. Plans. Knowing what the next ten years look like."
"And your dad?"
Grant huffs out a small laugh.
"My dad spent about thirty years working as an aerospace mechanic," he says. "And then one day he just decided he was done."
"Done?"
"Done," he repeats. "Bought a van, and now he just drives around the country."
I blink at him. "You're serious?"
"Last time I talked to him he was somewhere in Utah," Grant says. "Before that he was hiking in Arizona."
"You talk to him often?"
"About once a week."
"And he just... goes wherever he wants?"
"Pretty much."
The idea settles somewhere deep in my chest.
"Are your parents still together?"
Grant nods. "Yeah. My mom isn't ready to retire yet — she still loves what she does. But she didn't want to be the reason my dad stayed somewhere he didn't want to be. So he travels, and once a month she takes some time off and meets him wherever he is.
They'll spend a week together somewhere random. Sometimes they even go out of the country."
"And the rest of the time?"
"He's traveling for the most part, but he comes home whenever he feels like it or when my mom wants him to," Grant says. "So I don't see him constantly, but I see him enough."
I imagine it for a moment — no schedules, no handlers, no rooms full of people watching every movement.
Just leaving.
Going somewhere because you want to.
"You're thinking again," Grant says, his hand sliding slowly up and down my back.
I blink and look at him.
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm not."
His mouth lifts slightly.
"Naomi."
"I said I'm not."
Our lips meet halfway this time.
The kiss is softer at first, but it doesn't stay that way.
My hands slide into his hair again as his grip tightens at my waist, pulling me closer against him.
The kiss deepens slowly, our mouths moving together in slow pulls and presses, his tongue brushing against mine in a way that makes my stomach twist.
He abruptly pulls back leaving my breath uneven.
I've never been the type of girl who needs sex the way some people talk about it, like it's something essential, something they can't go a week without. It's never felt that urgent to me. Never something I've chased or thought about when I wasn't already in the middle of it.
But every time Grant pulls away from one of these kisses, something in my body reacts like it's been interrupted halfway through a sentence.
Like it was expecting something more.
And I don't even know how to explain that out loud.
The thought makes my chest tighten slightly, frustration mixing with embarrassment as I try to find the words and come up empty. Just because we haven't done anything doesn't mean I don't want to.
The thought slips through my mind so suddenly it almost startles me.
I'm not usually like this.
Grant's eyes flicker slightly, like he's searching my face for something I'm not saying out loud.
My mouth opens before I can stop it.
"I just—"
The words stall.