Chapter 13 #2
“You’d better be gone when I come out,” I snap, stepping into the bathroom.
His chuckle follows me as I slam the door shut, the sound echoing off the tiles. I twist the lock firmly, as if that flimsy piece of metal could keep out the memory of his hands on my skin, his mouth on mine.
I lean against the door for a moment, breathing hard, trying to collect myself.
My reflection in the mirror is a disaster—hair tangled, lips still swollen, that damn mark on my neck like a brand.
I look exactly like what I am: a woman who’s just spent the night being thoroughly claimed by a man she’s supposed to hate.
I turn on the shower, cranking the heat up until steam begins to fog the mirror. The pipes groan as hot water rushes through them, and I strip off the blanket with shaking hands.
Under the scalding spray, I let myself fall apart just a little. What the hell was I thinking? Sleeping with Caleb Wilder—my college rival, my current colleague, my absolute worst nightmare wrapped in an annoyingly attractive package.
I scrub at my skin like I can erase what happened, but every movement reminds me of how he touched me, how he made me feel things I’ve never felt with anybody else.
“Stupid,” I mutter, letting the shampoo run through my hair.
“So fucking stupid.” But even as I curse myself, I can’t deny the truth: it was good.
Better than good. It was the kind of sex that ruins you for other people, that makes you understand why women make terrible decisions over men who are wrong for them in every possible way.
I lean my forehead against the cool tile, trying to center myself. This doesn’t have to be complicated. We’re adults. We were drunk. We agreed it didn’t count. These things happen. The key is not letting it happen again and pretending it never happened in the first place. Simple.
I turn off the water, wrap myself in a towel, and take a deep breath. I can handle this. I can handle him. I just need to be firm, set boundaries, and make it clear that, whatever this was, it’s over.
The smell hits me the moment I step out of the bathroom—bacon, coffee, and something sweet that makes my stomach growl despite my nerves. I stop dead in my tracks, my heart sinking.
He didn’t leave.
Not only did he not leave, he’s apparently making himself at home in my kitchen. The rich scent of butter and maple syrup mingles with the smoky bacon, and despite my irritation, my mouth waters. The jerk raided my pantry. I just got those delivered!
But my irritation fades as my stomach rumbles. When was the last time someone made me breakfast? Usually breakfast is just coffee and whatever I can grab on my way to work.
I follow the scent to my kitchen, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floors, and then I stop completely.
Caleb is standing at my stove, wearing nothing but his wrinkled dress pants from last night.
The morning light streaming through my kitchen window catches on the defined muscles of his back, highlighting his trim physique as he moves.
His blonde hair is still messed up from sleep and my fingers, falling across his forehead in a way that makes him look younger, more approachable.
He’s cooking. Actually cooking, not just heating up leftovers or making toast. There’s a stack of golden pancakes on a plate, bacon sizzling in one pan, eggs cooking in another.
The domestic scene is so unexpected, so completely at odds with everything I thought I knew about him, that I can only stare.
I need to get dressed. Now. Before I do something stupid like appreciate the view too much.
I hurry back to my bedroom, clutching my towel around myself, and quickly pull on the jeans and cream sweater I’d laid out earlier.
The black lace underwear feels like a secret I’m keeping from myself.
When I catch my reflection in the dresser mirror, my damp hair falling in waves around my shoulders, I look almost normal.
If you ignore the faint mark on my neck and the way my lips are still slightly swollen.
Taking a deep breath, I return to the kitchen, trying to project an air of control I definitely don’t feel.
“Why are you still here?” I manage, crossing my arms over my chest.
He glances over his shoulder, his blue eyes traveling from my damp hair down my body in a way that makes heat pool low in my belly despite the clothes now covering me. “Thought you might be hungry.”
“I told you to leave.”
“You did.” He turns back to the stove, flipping the eggs with practiced ease. “But then I realized our cars are still at the yacht club. I made a call—someone’s bringing both cars here, along with a change of clothes for me.”
I blink, surprised by the efficiency of it. “Someone?”
“I have my ways,” he says with a shrug, not elaborating further. “Should be here in about an hour.”
He slides the eggs onto plates with practiced ease. “Figured we might as well eat something first. Counteract the alcohol.”
I watch him plate the food, trying to reconcile this version of Caleb—domestic, capable, thoughtful—with the arrogant rich-boy I’ve always assumed him to be.
“You can cook.” It’s not a question, but he answers anyway.
“I can do a lot of things.” He turns around, leaning against my counter with a plate in each hand, and I have to force myself not to stare at his chest. “Just because I come from money doesn’t mean I’m spoiled.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” I mutter, but there’s less bite in it than usual.
His lips form a smile that radiates arrogance. “Eat, Princess. You’re going to need your strength.”
“For what?”
“For pretending you don’t want to do this again.”
The boldness of the statement makes my cheeks burn. I snatch one of the plates from his hands, trying to ignore the way his fingers brush mine. “You’re delusional.”
“Am I?” He sets his plate on the counter and steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his bare skin. “Because the way you were moaning my name this morning suggests otherwise.”
“That was…” I start, then stop—Because what can I say? That it was a mistake? That it didn’t mean anything? The lies stick in my throat.
I take a deep breath, steeling myself. “Look, Caleb. Last night was... It was good. I won’t lie about that. But we can’t let it happen again.”
His expression shifts, surprise flickering across his features. “Why not?”
“Because we work together. Because it’s complicated. Because—” I run my hands through my damp hair, frustrated. “Because I don’t do relationships, especially not with people I work with.”
“Who said anything about a relationship?” He steps closer. “I’m talking about two adults who are clearly attracted to each other acting on it.”
“No.” I shake my head firmly, even as my body betrays me by responding to his proximity. “That’s not how this works for me. I don’t do casual hookups with colleagues.”
“Eve—”
“I’m serious, Caleb. It stays in this apartment. We go back to work, we act professional, and we pretend this never happened.”
He stares at me for a long moment, and I can see him weighing his options. Finally, he rolls his eyes with obvious annoyance.
“Unbelievable. You run hot and cold like nobody I've ever met” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. If that’s really what you want.”
“It is.”
“Then, fine.” But there’s something in his tone that suggests he doesn’t think it’ll be that simple. “We’ll pretend it never happened.” The casual agreement should reassure me, but something about the way he says it makes me think he’s humoring me rather than truly agreeing.
“Good,” I say, trying to sound more certain than I feel. “Then we understand each other.”
“Perfectly.” He turns back to the stove, and as I move around the kitchen to get cutlery, he snickers, “You know, I never noticed you had such a cute butt, Lopez.”
I nearly drop the forks I’m holding, spinning around to glare at him. “Excuse me?”
“What?” He flashes a mischievous grin, clearly enjoying my flustered reaction. “It’s a compliment. Very... professional observation.”
“Professional?” I sputter, my cheeks burning. “There is nothing professional about—”
“About noticing that you fill out those jeans very nicely?” He leans back against the counter, arms crossed, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “I’m just being observant.”
“You’re being an ass.”
He just winks at me, reaching for his shirt, finally covering that distracting expanse of chest. I pick up a piece of bacon from the plate in front of me and throw it at him, which he catches effortlessly and pops into his mouth.
“We’ll see how long this ‘pretending it never happened’ thing lasts,” he says, still grinning as he finishes getting dressed.
And as I watch him, I can’t help but think I might be in more trouble than I ever imagined.
* * *
We arrive at the office at exactly the same time. I insisted we keep a ten minute gap between our arrivals, but Caleb’s sedan pulls into the parking garage right behind mine. So much for being discreet.
I take my time gathering my things, hoping he’ll go ahead, but when I finally step out of my car, he’s waiting by the elevator for me, checking his phone like he has all the time in the world.
He looks infuriatingly put-together in a fresh navy suit, his hair styled perfectly, no trace of our night together except for the faint scratch marks I left on his neck.
“Morning, Princess,” he says without looking up from his phone.
“Don’t.” I jab the elevator irritably. “We agreed. Professional only.”
The elevator arrives, and we step inside together. The enclosed space feels impossibly small, his cologne mixing with the lingering scent of his skin that I remember too well. I focus on the numbers above the door, trying to ignore how my pulse quickens when he shifts closer.
“Relax,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. “I’m not going to jump you in the elevator.”
My cheeks burn. “Good. Because I’d knee you in the—”