Chapter 7 #2
I think about Rory's laugh. The way her eyes lit up when she talked about those ridiculous romance novels. How her hair caught the light from the twinkling Christmas decorations above the bar. The way she looked at me like I was someone worth taking a risk on.
The way I felt when I was with her—alive in a way I haven't felt in years.
And then I think about the note I left. The cowardice of walking away because it was safer than staying. Because staying meant risking something, and in the past four years, I've built my life around eliminating risk.
My jaw clenches as I grab my coat.
The reports can wait. The calls can wait.
Maybe it's time I stopped waiting too.
Baby steps, Adams.
I stride out of my office, and Jane glances up from her computer, her face shifting from surprise to something close to shock.
“Mr. Adams, I— Is there something you need?”
“I'm going out for lunch today.” The words feel foreign on my tongue, but I push forward anyway. “Hold my calls. I'll be back in an hour.”
Her eyes widen, but I'm already moving toward the lift, my heart hammering with something that feels dangerously close to hope.
I leave my flabbergasted assistant, unsure whether to be amused or offended by her reaction, and make my way down to the lobby, intent on walking to the Pret just around the corner. Quick, efficient, no fuss. Exactly my speed.
The December air bites at my face as I step out onto the bustling street, my mind already cataloguing the tedious meetings ahead of me upon my return. I'm just about to turn left toward the familiar red and white storefront when I hear it—the aggressive ring of a bicycle bell followed by a bellow.
“Oi, watch it, lady!”
Instinct kicks in before thought does.
I lunge forward, and my arm shoots out to grab whoever's about to become roadkill. Then I swiftly yank them backward against my chest just as a cyclist in high-vis barrels past, close enough that I feel the whoosh of air.
“Fucking tourists!” the cyclist shouts over his shoulder, not slowing down.
“Piss off, you prick.” I yell back, my heart hammering.
The person in my arms lets out a shaky laugh. “Well, that was—”
I freeze as I inhale sharply, and that intoxicatingly familiar scent hits me—vanilla and cinnamon. The same scent that clung to my skin this morning, that I begrudgingly showered away after leaving her sleeping. My grip on her waist tightens involuntarily at the memory.
Looking down, I see icy-blonde hair spilling out from beneath a knit hat, and blue eyes staring up at me in shock.
Those same eyes that looked up at me last night while she was on her knees, while I buried myself deep inside her, while she came apart in my arms. Her face is tilted up toward mine, close enough that I can see those navy-blue flecks sparkling in the winter light.
Close enough that muscle memory screams at me to claim her mouth the way I did mere hours ago.
Close enough to do precisely that if I just lower my head a fraction of an inch.
The thought sends heat coursing through me, and I'm suddenly acutely aware that I'm still holding her pressed against my body.
That every curve I memorised last night is now fitted against me in broad daylight.
That the guilt I've been carrying all morning is warring with the surge of desire that hits me like a punch to the throat.
“Rory?”
“Cole?” Her eyes go comically wide. “What are you— How—”
“What the hell were you doing stepping into the bike lane?” I demand, even as I carefully set her to rights and step back to check her over for injury. “Do you have a death wish?”
“I was looking at my phone!” She holds up the offending device, then flattens her lips when she seems to realise how ridiculous that sounds. “Google Maps said Pret was right here, and I was trying to figure out if I was at the right location—”
“Pret?” I blink owlishly. “My Pret?”
“Your Pret?” She arches a perfectly shaped eyebrow, colour returning to her pale cheeks. “Since when do you own a sandwich chain?”
“Since I've been eating from this exact location every single day for three years.” I gesture at the storefront behind her. “That Pret.”
Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “You're kidding me.”
“Do I look like I'm kidding?”
“I mean...no?” She doesn't look altogether convinced as she tilts her head, studying me with an intensity that makes my skin feel too tight. “You look very serious, though I’m not completely sure that’s not your usual look.”
Despite myself, I feel my lips twitch. “I was about to buy lunch.”
“So was I!” She looks between me and the Pret, shaking her head in disbelief. “This is insane. What are the odds?” Her bright blue gaze sweeps over my face, and that signature smile lights up the whole bloody street.
“There are 437 Pret locations in this city,” I say automatically, attempting and failing to ground myself with familiar numbers.
Trying not to think about how her smile is the same one she wore when she slipped that keycard into my palm.
How she's looking at me now the same way she did then—like I'm someone worth taking a risk on.
Was she this gorgeous last night, or is it just the daylight making her glow?
“Of course you know that.” Her laugh is nothing short of gleeful as it washes over me like sunshine. “Of course you do.”
She's doing that thing where she talks with her hands, gesturing between me and the shop like she's physically mapping out the impossibility.
I've never noticed anyone do that before.
Or maybe I have, but I've never cared enough to pay attention.
With Rory, I notice everything—the way her nose crinkles when she smiles, the animated sparkle in her eyes, the graceful movement of her fingers.
My stomach dips, reminding me that it’s for those very reasons I left that note this morning.
“Thank you, by the way.” Her eyes soften when they meet mine. “For the whole heroic rescue thing.”
Something in her expression makes my chest tight, but before I can respond to her thanks, the words I've been holding back all morning tumble out. “Rory, I need to apologise.”
Her expression shifts, something guarded flickering across her features. “For saving my life? Well, that seems counterproductive.”
“For this morning.” I run a hand through my hair, suddenly feeling like an awkward teenager instead of a thirty-one-year-old grown-ass man. “For leaving the way I did. That note—it was bullshit.”
She's quiet for a moment, those penetrating blue eyes locked on mine. When she speaks, her voice is softer. “It was honest. I appreciated that, actually. No false promises or morning-after fumbling.”
“Still.” I hold her gaze, needing her to understand. “You deserved better than waking up alone. You deserved a real conversation, not a note on hotel stationery.”
Something shifts in her expression—surprise, maybe, or appreciation. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture that seems both nervous and endearing.
“Thank you for saying that.” She adjusts her hat, a small smile playing at her lips. “For what it's worth, I don't regret what happened between us. Not one little bit. It was...”
As she trails off, her cheeks flush in the same way they did while coming all over my cock last night. I desperately try to push the thought away as quickly as it manifested, but the memory lingers in my mind’s eye.
Taunting me.
Tempting me.
Fuck.
“Yeah,” I agree, my voice low and rough. “It was.”
The air between us thickens with the memory of tangled sheets and breathless moans, of her nails raking down my back and her name on my lips.
I can see the same heat reflected in her eyes, the same awareness that we're standing too close, that the pull between us hasn't diminished one bit despite my fuckery this morning.
“So,” she says, breaking the tension with a bright smile that makes her shine from within. “Heroic rescue plus a genuine apology, hmm? That's practically swoon-worthy territory on the book boyfriend scale.”
Despite everything, I feel my lips curve into a genuine smile. “I'm most assuredly not book boyfriend material.”
“Hmm.” She tilts her head, mock-serious. “See, that's exactly what they always say. They think they're too damaged or too complicated.” Then she taps her chin thoughtfully. “And yet, here you are, apologising for your behaviour and showing actual emotional intelligence. Very suspicious.”
“Suspicious?” I question, shaking my head, but unable to stop the grin from spreading across my face.
“Extremely.” Her eyes dance with mischief as she adjusts her festive red woollen coat. “I’m going to need a decent lunch recommendation to add to my data collection spreadsheets.”
We edge closer to Pret, and I reach for the door. “Oh, you’ve got spreadsheets now? Your devotion shall be felt throughout the book boyfriend community.”
“We prefer Smut Readers Anonymous, Hotshot.” She winks broadly. “So, considering this is your Pret, what would you recommend?”
Holding the door open, I try not to notice how her scent wraps around me as she passes. “What do you usually go for? Meat, vegetarian?”
“I'll eat just about anything,” she admits with a smile in her voice as she follows me inside before immediately scanning the menu board. “I'm trying to eat my way through as much authentic British cuisine as possible before my time in the UK is over.”
The reminder that she's temporary, that she'll be gone soon, sits heavily in my chest. A reminder that, although cowardly, asshole behaviour, I did the right thing this morning.
The safe thing.
“The chicken and bacon is good. Though you could try the cheddar and pickle if you want something properly British.”
“Sounds perfect. Cheddar and pickle it is.” She glances over at me, eyebrows raised when she notices I'm not looking at the board. “And what about you? What are you having today?”
“Chicken and bacon.”
“Oh, that's one of the ones you recommended.” She tilts her head questioningly. “Do you get that often?”