Chapter 12
CONNOR
The man points us next door, through an open-air courtyard to a semi-attached building that looks exactly like the one we’re standing on. I assume it’s part of this restaurant, maybe a small inn with an independent entrance. “They are expecting you at the front desk.”
The light drizzle of an hour ago has turned to full-on rain. We pause at the restaurant’s entrance after paying, watching the water fall in steady sheets.
“We should run for it,” Manuela says, as if the distance were large enough to get us wet.
“To what?” I say over the sound of the rain. “The entrance is ten feet away.”
“It feels more dramatic if we run.”
She opens the door with a crooked smile. “After you.”
We sprint, laughing like idiots, into the rain.
We make it two steps before she veers off course. “Where are you going?” I shout over the rain, turning back.
Manuela just laughs and runs the long way around the courtyard, cutting a wide, unnecessary arc past a fountain and under the tree dripping with golden leaves.
Her shoes splash through shallow puddles, her arms lifted like she’s trying to fly.
Her body is loose, a little wilder than usual, wine still warm in her system.
It’s ridiculous.
I follow.
By the time I catch up to her at the entrance to the bed and breakfast, we’re both soaked, breathless, and grinning like idiots.
“Very dramatic,” I say, pushing the door open for her.
“Thank you,” she says, stepping past me into the warmth of the lobby. “I love committing to a bit.”
The front desk is barely more than a counter with a bell. A man in his fifties who looks suspiciously like the man at the restaurant looks up from behind a wooden partition, already holding a key.
“You are the one from the restaurant, yes?” he asks in accented English.
“Yep,” I say.
He checks something on a clipboard and nods once. “Only one room available tonight. Twin beds.”
Manuela nods. “Perfect.”
We exchange glances. I keep my face neutral. This is fine. Not ideal, of course. But manageable as two grown adults in their mid-thirties.
“Do you have a toiletry kit?” Manuela asks, leaning on the counter. Her hair is plastered to her face, and some loose strands are slowly dripping water. “Like toothbrush and toothpaste?”
“In the room, yes.”
“Thank you,” she says, turning to look at me.
The room is on the second floor, past a narrow spiral staircase and a corridor lined with old photographs of the town—black-and-white prints of snow-covered roofs and fishermen by the lake.
The waterfall during the four seasons, clear indications of each one by the trees surrounding the pool at the bottom.
At the end of the hallway, I unlock the door. Manuela steps in first.
And stops. “Oh.”
The “twin beds” are here, alright—pushed together like a single queen bed, dressed in one enormous white duvet. No space between them. Zero separation.
“Oh,” she says again.
I run a hand through my damp hair. “I’ll go back down. See if the man can pull them apart.”
She kicks off her wet shoes and peels off her sweater. The long sleeve tee she’s wearing underneath is damp, especially in the shoulder area, and sticks to her body. “Okay.”
“It’ll take two minutes.”
“Nothing ever takes two minutes.” She laughs, soft and buzzed, making her way to the tiny bathroom by the door. I hear the shower turn on and stand there like an idiot, waiting for my body to react to what is happening. “I don’t mind, just don’t steal the covers.”
“Okay, then,” I say. But even as I head for the door, I know I don’t love the idea of crawling under one blanket and pretending the lack of space doesn’t matter.
She might not mind, but I do. Not because of her, but because of me.
Because two weeks in close quarters with her is already dangerous, and one bed pretending to be two feels like a line I shouldn’t be so quick to blur. “I’ll be right back.”
By the time I get downstairs and back—after ringing the bell three times and getting no answer and then making my way to the restaurant to find it locked—she’s out cold. Fully under the shared duvet, limbs sprawled diagonally across both beds like it’s her birthright.
I stand in the doorway, staring at the scene like a fool, again.
Maybe if I can find another duvet, I can make a bed on the floor. There are enough pillows for me to be able to sleep semi-comfortably. Admittedly, I haven’t been camping in decades, and even then, it was much more luxurious than just a sleeping bag on the floor.
Manuela shifts in her sleep, murmuring something into the pillow. Her hair’s still damp and curling along her neck. She looks… soft. Uncomplicated. Like someone who could sleep through anything.
I toe off my shoes, peel off my wet shirt, and hang it in the closet in the hopes that it dries overnight. I lie down on top of the duvet and use the throw blanket at the foot of the bed to cover myself, keeping a respectful distance from her and trying not to breathe too loudly.
My phone lights up when I check it one last time. There are a handful of missed messages stacked in the group thread. I type quickly:
Me
We missed the train. Found a place for the night.
Don’t worry, we’ll catch up tomorrow.
I hit send, drop the phone on the nightstand, and exhale.
Outside, the rain keeps falling in rhythmic sheets.
I close my eyes and let it settle in.
This is nothing. Just two people stuck in a small town. Two beds, kind of?
But it doesn’t feel like nothing.
Not even a little.
The ringing bells wake me. They echo through the window in low, even chimes, distant but clear, like sound carried over water.
I blink into the soft morning light, unsure of where I am for a second—until I see the pale wooden beams overhead, the white duvet tangled around my legs, and the bare curve of a shoulder just inches from mine.
Right. Right, right. Yes.
Manuela’s hair is spread across the pillow, golden and messy, one arm draped over my chest. Her bare leg is hooked around mine, and when did she get rid of her leggings?
At some point during the night, we must’ve both shifted closer, too I had been intent on keeping a respectful distance over the duvet, covered only with a decorative blanket.
I don’t move.
The room is quiet, and the outside seems to be slowly waking up.
It reminds me of lying awake in New York in the middle of the night, when the city is finally asleep.
There’s no traffic, no footsteps or people moving around, just the occasional creak of old wood and those church bells ringing out again.
Like they’re giving us a second chance to wake up.
Her breath is warm against my neck, and my heart kicks in response to her proximity.
I should shift. I know this, logically. I should roll over and create some space, make this less—
But she shifts first.
Her nose nuzzles into the hollow of my throat, and her fingers graze my ribs. Lightly, but it lights me up like a fucking switch. I try to hold my breath and exhale slowly, like keeping my heart rate even might help.
I think that she’s half-asleep. Eyelashes resting on her cheeks, mouth parted slightly.
Her thigh presses against my body in a way that feels entirely intentional, even though I know it isn’t.
My cock is impossibly hard but definitely not because there’s a beautiful woman plastered to the side of my body.
It’s an absolutely natural response to waking up.
Yes, that’s what it is.
She murmurs something into my collarbone, but I can’t make out the words. Her voice is low and raspy, laced with sleep.
“Morning,” I say, quieter than I mean to.
Manuela stirs again, her eyes fluttering open, and for a moment, we look at each other. Her hand is still on my chest, and I’m convinced she can feel my erratic pulse, my heart hammering like it wants to leave my body.
There’s a flicker of recognition in her eyes, then something else—the realization blooming slow and warm.
“Oh,” she says. But she doesn’t move away.
Neither do I.
“Do you sleepwalk?” I ask, trying for a joke, but my voice comes out hoarse and charged.
She huffs a laugh. “You’re the one wrapped around me, dude.”
I glance down and realize, albeit a little too late, that she’s not wrong. One of my arms is curled behind her back, my hand resting above her hip like it belongs there and she’s mine.
“I thought I stayed on my side,” I murmur.
“You did,” she says, eyes narrowing but still not moving, “until, like… the middle of the night? Then you started hoarding the blanket.”
“That absolutely does not sound like me.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.”
The bells toll again, softer now. There’s a faint sound farther away, like the even cadence of the train running over the tracks. Somewhere downstairs, a door opens and shuts, and loud voices float up and linger between us. Her fingers twitch slightly on my chest.
It would be so easy to kiss her.
It would also be the most terrible idea.
Her leg brushes mine as she shifts again, finally pushing off the covers and flopping onto her back. The duvet slips low, revealing the soft curve of her stomach where her tank top has ridden up.
I look away. I’m not a monster. But…
She stretches with a quiet groan, eyes still half-lidded. “I need coffee. And possibly a new set of legs. My age is betraying me. I don’t think I can manage another of these hikes again.”
“This bed is criminal.”
“Speak for yourself. I slept like a baby.”
“Yeah,” I say under my breath. “You looked like it.”
She throws me a lazy glare, then swings her legs over the side of the bed and stands up, hair wild, still half-asleep.
I watch her cross to the bathroom, bare legs carrying her across the room, the waistband of her underwear riding low on her hips.
The fabric clings just enough to make me look away before I start thinking more things I shouldn’t.
She pauses at the door and looks back, and something about the way she holds my gaze—casual, like we didn’t just spend the night tangled together while half-naked—knocks the air out of my lungs.
“You coming?”
I blink, brain short-circuiting. “To the bathroom?”
She smirks. “To coffee.”
“Right.” Obviously.
She disappears behind the door, and I exhale, rubbing a hand down my face.
Good lord, I’m well and truly fucked. These are going to be the longest two weeks of my life.