Chapter 24
TEXT. SEEN. DEAD.
RORIE
I can’t breathe.
Not properly, anyway.
Jeremy’s text. Nolan’s reaction.
If mortification were a game show, I’d be in the bonus round, sweating under the lights and praying for a commercial break.
He saw it, and now he’s sitting there, arm draped across the back of the booth, bourbon in hand, eyes on me, watching, waiting for me to make the next move.
My face is hot. My blood is pumping louder than the music.
And my drink?
Long gone.
I sucked that shit down about five seconds after I realized he read Jeremy’s words.
I’m not sure what embarrasses me more: the fact that Jeremy sent the text and he saw it, or the fact that Nolan’s probably playing the image in his head right now in full Dolby surround sound.
Shoving my phone into my bag, I slide out from the table. “I need to pee,” I say, which is the most obvious lie I’ve ever told in my life.
I don’t wait for a response. I grab my purse and head toward the bathroom. The air changes the second I walk away—cooler, a slight reprieve from the war zone I just abandoned.
Pressing through the crowd, I shoulder through strangers, every step echoing with the memory of Nolan’s gaze and the not-so-subtle reminder that I haven’t been touched by a man–like that–in a while.
Hence, the reason I’m here in the first place.
And apparently, my subconscious thinks Nolan Rhodes is the emergency exit from my dry spell, because it’s already yanking the lever.
Help me.
Reaching the bathroom, I shove the door open with more force than necessary. The soft whoosh of air and silence envelopes me like a reset button I’m too wired to press.
I stare at myself in the mirror. My reflection does not say: woman in control.
It says: woman in spiral.
Hair slightly wild. Lipstick fading. Chest rising too fast.
Gripping the sink like it might stop me from combusting, I whisper, “Get it together.”
But the second I close my eyes, dark eyes, lazy grin, cute ass dimple, and the memory of his mouth on mine, hands on my waist, and that look he gives me, they all assault my mind.
I exhale hard and turn on the faucet. Cold water. A splash to the face. A moment to recalibrate.
That’s all I need.
I grab a paper towel, dab my face, press it to my neck. Deep breaths.
This is nothing. I can handle this.
It’s just a bar.
Just a drink.
Just a man I definitely, absolutely, should not be imagining between my thighs.
But I am.
I close my eyes. Behind me—the door creaks open.