Chapter 21 #2
The towel is soft against my scalp, her movements careful and methodical.
She’s taking care of me, and something about that simple act makes my throat tight.
This moment feels raw. Stripped bare. Both of us standing here without our usual defenses, without the walls we usually keep up.
Just her hands in my hair and the quiet between us, heavy with everything we’re not saying.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask, my voice rough.
Her hands pause for just a second before continuing. “I’m more concerned about you.”
“I know I scared you tonight. The way I went after Luis—”
“You didn’t scare me.”
I open my eyes. She’s looking at my hair, concentrating on drying it thoroughly, her jaw set in that determined way she has.
“Eve.”
“You didn’t,” she says firmly. “I wasn’t scared of you. I was scared for you.”
“For me?”
She sets the towel aside and starts combing her fingers through my hair, working out the tangles with surprising gentleness.
“At the police station, I felt completely useless.” Her voice is steady, matter-of-fact, but I hear the frustration beneath it.
The admission costs her something. “I didn’t know who to call, or what to do, or how to help,” she continues.
“I just stood there in that horrible fluorescent lighting while they processed your paperwork.”
She stops, her fingers still moving through my hair, and I understand what she’s not saying. Eve, who plans for everything, who’s always three steps ahead, had been powerless. And for someone like her, that’s worse than any physical threat.
I wrap my arms around her waist and pull her closer, resting my chin on her chest so I can look up at her. Her hands are motionless in my hair, and her eyes finally meet mine.
“You stayed,” I say firmly. “That was enough. You don’t always have to do something extraordinary.
You don’t always have to have all the answers.
” I see the doubt flickering in her expression.
“I was happy to see you when I walked out of that station,” I tell her.
“That’s all I wanted. Just you, waiting for me. That meant everything.”
She sighs, her fingers resuming their gentle movement through my hair. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”
“No.” I hold her gaze, willing her to believe me. “I wouldn’t lie to you. Not about this.” It’s the truth. Whatever else this thing between us is, whatever it’s become, I wouldn’t lie to her.
She opens her mouth like she wants to argue, wants to deflect, but I don’t give her the chance.
I pull her down and kiss her slowly, pouring everything I can’t say into the press of my lips against hers.
She melts into me immediately, her hands cupping my face, her fingers sliding into my damp hair.
The kiss is soft and deep and achingly tender, and I feel something crack open in my chest.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard. I rest my forehead against hers, my hands spanning her waist. “Come on,” I murmur. “Let’s get some sleep.”
She nods, and we climb into bed. I pull her into my arms, and she settles against me with a soft sigh, her back to my chest, fitting perfectly into the space like she was made for it.
Her fingers find mine where they rest on her stomach, playing with them absently.
Tracing the lines of my palm, threading through my fingers.
The gesture is so unconscious, so comfortable, that it makes my heart ache.
“Luis is gone now,” she says quietly into the darkness. “For good.”
“Yeah.”
There’s a pause. Then: “So what happens now?”
I press a kiss to her neck, breathing in the scent of her shampoo, buying myself time. “Let’s talk about this later. Get some sleep.”
She doesn’t argue. Within minutes, her breathing evens out, and I feel her body relax completely against mine, her fingers going still around my hand.
But I don’t sleep. I lie there in the dark, holding her, listening to her breathe, feeling the steady rise and fall of her chest.
Does she want out? Is that why she asked? Is she already thinking about how to end this arrangement cleanly, professionally, without making things weird between us?
The thought makes my chest feel hollow.
I should want out, too. I should be relieved that the charade is over, that I can go back to my normal life. Back to keeping people at arm’s length. Back to casual and uncomplicated and safe. Except I don’t want out.
I want this—her warm weight in my arms, her fingers tangled with mine, her soft breathing in the quiet darkness. I want my toothbrush next to hers and my clothes in her drawer and nights like this where we fall asleep together as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
When I saw Luis hurt her tonight, I didn’t react like a fake boyfriend doing a friend a favor. I reacted like someone who couldn’t breathe at the thought of her being in pain. Like someone who would do anything—anything—to keep her safe.
And that terrifies me.
But lying here with Eve in my arms, I can’t pretend anymore. I can’t tell myself this is just pretend or convenient or temporary. This is something else. Something bigger. Something I’m not ready to name yet can’t deny.
I tighten my arms around her, and she makes a small sound in her sleep, snuggling deeper into my embrace. My heart pounds in my chest, too fast, too hard.
I need time. Time to figure out how to convince her that this thing between us is real. That we work. That ending this would be absolutely idiotic.
I’ve negotiated million-dollar deals. I’ve convinced clients to take risks on unconventional campaigns.
Hell, I once talked my way out of a speeding ticket by complimenting the cop’s choice of donuts.
But somehow, the idea of convincing Eve Lopez that we should stay together feels more daunting than all of that combined.
This is the woman who once told me I was the most insufferable person she’d ever met. Who glared at me like I was something she’d scraped off her shoe for the first two months we worked together. Who made it abundantly clear that she’d rather eat glass than spend time with me outside of work.
And now I’m supposed to convince her that we’re good together? That what started as a fake arrangement has become something real?
I’m going to need a strategy. A good one.
The irony isn’t lost on me. The guy who doesn’t do relationships is now lying awake trying to figure out how to keep one. With the woman who used to hate him.
I just have to make sure she doesn’t end this before I get the chance to show her what we could be.
* * *
The morning light filters through the curtains when I wake up, and for a moment, I forget where I am. Then Eve shifts beside me, and everything from last night comes rushing back.
I turn my head to look at her. She’s on her side facing me, still in that oversized t-shirt she borrowed, her dark hair spread across my pillow.
One of her hands is curled near her face, and even in sleep, there’s something guarded about her, like she’s protecting herself.
But her lips are slightly parted, her breathing soft and even, and I want to reach out and touch her so badly it hurts.
I want to wake her up. I want to slide my hand under that shirt and watch her eyes flutter open. I want to hear that sound she makes when I kiss her neck.
But she needs the sleep after everything. And honestly, I need a minute to think, to figure out what the hell I’m doing.
I ease out of bed carefully, watching to make sure she doesn’t stir. She doesn’t. Just burrows deeper into the pillow with a soft sigh that makes my chest ache. Padding out of the bedroom, I close the door most of the way behind me, and I head straight for the coffee maker.
The coffee grounds are in the cabinet above the sink, filters in the drawer below. The routine of it gives me something to do with my hands while my mind races. I measure out the coffee, fill the pot with water, and hit the button. The machine gurgles to life.
I lean against the counter, staring at nothing while my mind races with repeated thoughts. When the coffee finishes brewing, I pour myself a cup, wrapping my hands around the mug.
We agreed on no feelings. That was my rule, and I broke it. Now how do I tell her I’m possibly in love with her, without her tossing my ass out the front door?
Okay, maybe she won’t toss me out. But there’s no way she feels the same way. I know she cares about me—when you’re glued together all the time, it’s sort of impossible not to—but caring and wanting a real relationship are two different things.
How do I convince her she needs me? That I’m good for her?
I take a sip of coffee, trying to think.
Eve likes money, so I could get her gifts.
But she’s the kind who would rather buy herself jewelry than get it from a man.
I know she likes flowers. But what else?
There are some paintings she was eyeing at that gallery last week, but I doubt she’d like me to get them for her.
She enjoys budgeting for them and buying them herself.
She probably has a goddamn spreadsheet for it.
Why is this woman so impossible? She won’t let me do any of the normal boyfriend things. Won’t let me spoil her. Won’t let me take care of her the way I want to. She’s so determined to be independent, so convinced she doesn’t need anyone, that I don’t know how to break through.
And the worst part? That’s exactly what I love about her. Her stubbornness. Her pride. The way she refuses to rely on anyone but herself.
God, I'm screwed.
My phone rings, cutting through my thoughts. Megan’s name flashes on the screen. I answer with, “Oh, so now you’re talking to me?”
“Shut up,” she snaps, but there’s something off in her voice. Tight. Worried.
My gut clenches. “What’s wrong?”
“I found out you went to jail last night.”
I set my coffee down. “I’m fine. It was nothing.”