Chapter Four
He exhaled, slow and heavy, as if that alone could reset the chaos of the evening.
All he’d wanted was a couple of beers before his ungodly early flight tomorrow.
Instead, he’d managed to bodycheck a stranger—an attractive stranger who was going to live rent-free in his brain—and now he looked like a crime scene.
The collision replayed behind his eyes.
God, there was something about Ella that bulldozed right through his usual checklist of Stuff I’m Into.
Ella wasn’t put together like the women who glided through his world on set.
Her hair was too dark for her skin, probably DIYed in a bathroom sink.
Her laugh was loud, unapologetic, the kind that burst out before she could think to tame it.
And her flirting? Clumsy, sure. But it was genuine.
He scrubbed at his pec, irked that it still buzzed from her touch.
But what really got under his skin was that look—like she didn’t want him to go.
Like he was someone worth knowing. Which, Jesus, was not a feeling he was used to.
Nate was accustomed to being treated like a mannequin.
Half the time, his face wasn’t even in the frame. Just a torso, some abs, and a dick.
Maybe I should go back. See if she’s still there. His sensible brain elbowed in hard. Don’t be an idiot. She’s with her boyfriend. Or whoever that guy was.
He scrubbed a hand over his eyes. Anyway, a girl like that would want nothing to do with him. She probably rescued dolphins or fostered kittens. Meanwhile, Nate? He could ejaculate on command and occasionally memorize lines. Yeah, real world-changer right there.
He grunted, settling into the thought with a sour twist in his gut. Whoever she was, Ella deserved better. So much better.
Nate jabbed the elevator button and stared straight ahead.
Sure, he could mope here another week or two, but cheaper existential crises existed.
What he needed was a scalding shower, a plane home, and a few months hiding out in his mom’s guest room, where judgment existed only in the form of small sighs and occasionally burnt toast.
A woman slid up beside him, her rumpled business suit and glazed eyes suggested a long day of meetings that had bled into a night of networking. “Hi,” she slurred, accent lilting like someone had sprinkled Swedish sugar on the syllables. “Do I know you?”
“Uh, no. Don’t think so.”
She ran a hand through her blonde hair, squinting. “No, I definitely do. You’re a famous movie star or something, right?”
He huffed a laugh. “‘Fraid not. Familiar face, I guess.”
Her gaze drifted to his wine-stained T-shirt. One eyebrow arched, mouth curving into a smirk. “Messy night?”
“Clumsy stranger.”
She leaned in close, so he smelled the tang of gin on her breath. “Sounds like my kind of evening.”
The elevator dinged, the doors sliding open. He stepped inside, praying for silence. No such luck.
“So, what floor?” the woman asked, trailing in behind him.
“Eight.”
Her grin widened. “What a coincidence.”
The elevator creaked upwards. Nate focused on the glowing numbers, willing them to move faster.
“I remember where I’ve seen you,” she said suddenly.
Nate stiffened. “Oh?”
“You’re in that Netflix show,” she said, snapping her fingers. “The one with the autistic detective.”
“Yep. That must be it.”
Ding.
They stepped out together into the hallway. He moved toward his door. She followed, heels clicking.
When he stopped, she did too.
He swiped his keycard over the lock. Green light. Click.
“Well?” she purred, leaning against the wall. “Gonna invite me in?”
He turned, blinking once, then again. Sometime between the elevator and here, she’d undone the top two buttons of her blouse. His body registered the detail with the enthusiasm of a flat soda. Nate plastered on a smile. “Tempting, but I have to pack.”
“You sure?” she said, tracing a finger up the doorframe.
“Uh-huh. Sorry. Early flight.”
The woman huffed, dramatic, perfectly unimpressed. “Your loss, detective.”
The sound of her heels faded down the hall.
Nate exhaled, resting his forehead against the door before pushing inside. Not even bothering with the lights, he kicked off his shoes, tugged the T-shirt off, and dumped it in the bathroom sink.
The suitcase? Yeah, that was somewhere in the room, probably glowering at him. But his limbs were wet noodles, every muscle howling for rest, mind overtaxed from a week of spiraling.
Just five minutes, he promised himself, flopping onto the bed, hugging a pillow like a shield against his own brain. Within seconds, he was out.
And in that last flicker of consciousness—her face. Ella.