Chapter 22
There is a reason I tend to slip out before dawn or push my one night stands out of bed while we’re still buzzing with the remnants of an orgasm.
Startling awake, naked, to a warm, albeit empty bed and the smell of coffee wafting in through the cracked doorway with the phantom of Noah’s hands all over me, reminds me of this reason.
It’s too personal to wake up to someone.
Without the haze of beer fueled flirtations, the weight of what we did threatens to swallow me whole.
“Fuck,” I croak, rolling over to bury my face in the pillows.
I inhale to let out a frustrated groan. Everything smells of Noah and sex, the lines of our agreement blurred beyond recognition.
In the cold light of morning, the path we started down last night is terrifying, a brisk pop of what could be amidst the pretend play.
Somewhere between sharing pieces of our past and flirting at the pool table, we crossed a line I’m not sure we can recover from.
But worse than not seeing a path is a chilling reality: I’m not sure I want to.
I mean, of course I do. We still have a deal to close, and a store to launch, and there are far too many questions I don’t want to ask or answer.
Never mind the fact all that waits on the other side of this is the mess of a heartbreak for one or both of us.
Pulling everything back into the professional space and forgetting last night is the only thing I can do.
Any other option is too risky, for more than our professional roles.
Tugging the top sheet free, I keep it wrapped around my chest while I cross over to my bag and pull out a pair of leggings and a t-shirt.
I dress quickly and ruffle my hair. Everything on this side of the bedroom door is settling into normal.
Or, at least as normal as it can be after fake dating and for real fucking your boss on a business trip.
I’ve done casual, and the easy-breezy-after-sex brush off has my brand stamped all over it.
There is no reason why I can’t walk out there and pull us sharply back into the bounds of propriety.
Never mind the fact his face was between my legs a few hours ago.
We can come back from that. We have to. I have to.
Padding down the hallway, I focus on inhaling and exhaling like someone who doesn’t have to think about it.
Noah’s back is to me, a light blue t-shirt pulled tight around his shoulders as he uses a dustpan to sweep up the broken shards from the vase we broke last night.
An electric thrill runs under my skin remembering the desperate clawing that led to the vase smashing against the hardwood and the way he carried me over it.
It takes everything I have to keep my voice even.
“Good morning,” I chime, stepping past him and tucking my hair behind my ear.
He pivots on his toes and beams, his eyes sparkling with the unsaid.
“Good morning. There’s coffee.”
I step around the island, pulling the coffee pot out and filling an oversized white mug before leaning against the counter top and tipping my head towards the stove.
“And bacon?”
“Yeah,” he says, teasing the whimsy around us. “Are you hungry? I snagged a few things from the main house when I went over there for more coffee.”
“I could eat.”
Easy breezy is a lot harder to manage when you have someone like Noah making the extra effort to find and make breakfast in a house that isn’t even ours.
His. There is nothing that’s ours. Except maybe the mess of whatever sleeping together is turning into.
Suddenly the broken vase is more like an omen than an accident.
He takes the now full dustpan and dumps the remaining shards into the garbage under the sink before he stands up to wash his hands.
The confidence I summoned before stepping out here is fading fast; everything about the way he moves around me whispers of what we did, every sensual touch and desperate whisper.
I settle onto one of the barstools, sipping my coffee and gazing out at the garden in an effort to keep my attention on anything but him. Noah tends the bacon and then flips on one of the other burners before he turns. His hands press into the countertop as he leans forward, his face serious.
“I think maybe we should talk.”
I swallow hard, the gulp burning down my throat. Oh god. The talk. I hate this part. Between the awkward brush off and the tempering of expectations, there tends to be a landmine of emotion and missed intimacy. Not for me, of course, but for people like Noah.
“Right. Yes. We should.”
“Last night . . .”
“Last night,” I mimic.
He straightens and runs his palm down over his mouth before lacing his fingers behind his neck.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to say it. I understand.” I set my cup down and curl my fingers around it, letting the heat distract me from the brush off. This is what needs to happen. Keeping my eyes trained on the nearly black liquid, I finish the thought. “It was a one and done, no biggie.”
“Is that what you want?”
My gaze pops up to meet his, my mouth going dry. “Isn’t that what you want?”
His smile crinkles as he shakes his head, so slight that if I wasn’t searching his body for any ounce of his true thoughts, I would have missed it.
“No,” he says, finally. “I think it’s what I should want, but no.”
Shit.
Of the options I thought I was facing, this is definitely not the easier one. This honesty and silent invitation for more is like standing on the edge of the cliff, a vast canyon of unknown spreading out below me and threatening to beat me into pulp if I fall. We can’t. We shouldn’t. And yet . . .
Noah’s voice is quiet, hesitant. Hopeful as he asks again, “Is it what you want?”
I bite my lip, the careful elation after his confession not enough to lift the dread.
If I say yes, he would respect it. He would slip back into the gentlemanly role he carried so carefully before I matched his challenge last night.
Once more I am left facing the choice between lying to protect myself, or risking honesty and opening myself up to what that might bring.
“I don’t know.”
It’s as honest as I can afford to be, but it doesn’t sound like enough. The raw vulnerability of Noah’s confession is like a knife in my belly and I squeeze the coffee mug tighter in my hands. He can admit it, why can’t I?
“Alright,” he says, turning back to the stove and reaching for the carton of eggs.
Alright? Alright, what? Determining what we want is barely the first step of figuring our way through this, and we don’t even have a firm grasp on that.
“I—”
Words form and fail; I don’t know what to say.
Noah turns, the bowl of eggs propped in his elbow and a whisk clutched in his other fist. The sight distracts me entirely, the playful grin tugging his cheeks up enough of an answer.
Who needs to know what’s next when you have a tall, muscular man who can pull multiple orgasms from you making you breakfast?
Why am I stopping this, whatever it is, before it gets started?
And then I remember. Breakfast is only the beginning of what will inevitably hurt one or both of us.
There is a reason I don’t do morning afters.
As if reading the panic on my face, Noah offers a solution.
“How about we just have breakfast and take it from there?”
His suggestion warms the icy chill in my chest, the simplicity of it more tempting than anything.
It tugs at that careful bubble we shared last night at the bar, the easy compartment where it’s just the two of us chasing the high of being together in the moment and letting all the other noise fade. For now.
Comforted by his offer to take things one minuscule step at a time, I nod and he turns back to the stove, pouring the yellow liquid into the now hot pan.
It sizzles and he turns a spatula in slow circles.
Ignoring the way the pure domesticity of it sends my heart racing, I grip my coffee cup tighter, my knuckles turning white.
You can do this. It’s just breakfast. Normal people eat breakfast.
“But I want to be honest with you, Lottie.”
His sudden continuance of the conversation snaps my attention back like a cut rubber band.
“While I don’t want last night to be the end, I don’t know what I want to be next,” he admits, his back still turned. “Or really, what I am allowed to expect. This is sort of a . . .” His voice trails off.
“A mess?”
He shoots me a smile over his shoulder. “Yes. Quite the mess.”
I’m not sure I believe his saying he doesn’t know what’s next.
Just last night he told me that’s the reason his last relationship failed.
But at the same time, this might be new territory for him too.
In the same way I don’t get to know my dates further than first names and bedroom kinks, maybe he doesn’t tease the idea of casual sex.
When he turns around again, his face is more serious. “Do you regret it?”
“No.”
The answer slips out quickly and to the point. It’s true—I don’t regret sleeping with him. It was everything I love about a good hook-up, better even. Was it stupid to sleep with my boss? Maybe. But do I regret sleeping with Noah? No.
“Good,” he says, the smile returning. “I don’t either. Though I should apologize for blatantly breaking our rules.”
“It was a mutual undoing,” I quip, the easy banter easier to stomach than the deep wells of uncertainty we’ve been dancing around. “Besides, our rules were mostly to keep me from losing . . .” I trail off realizing I have in fact lost the bet and slam my hand down on the counter. “Shit!”
Noah spins around, his eyes searching me for further signs of distress. “What happened?”
“I lost the fucking bet!”
Annoyed it’s escaped my thinking until now, I drop my face into my hands. Kara is going to be insufferable.
His eyebrow quirks. “You bet we would sleep together?”