Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Sleep deprivation will kill you.
John has dimples… in more than one place.
I definitely did not look at the pictures again. Nope. Not even once.
Instead, I’d deposited my phone across the room, establishing a firm physical boundary between me and temptation.
John's confidence had lit a new fire under my ass. As my fingers flew across the keyboard, I relished the rhythmic clicking sound. If I could just add the hum of a high-end coffee machine or the moody soundtrack of Portishead’s 1997 album, this would be heaven.
I typed like my life depended on it—which, to be fair, it kind of did.
Busy Nora didn’t eat.
Stressed-out Nora didn’t talk.
And determined Nora didn’t sleep.
Well, if you ignore the 20-minute nap I accidentally took on my keyboard, which left an unflattering pattern on my face and sixty pages of "ehhhhhhh..."
I’d probably die of sleep deprivation at thirty-six, but if it kept Dad’s shop open, it would be worth it.
When sunlight painted my bedroom walls pale yellow and dusted the snow-topped trees with gold, my eyelids began to droop.
What I needed was a hefty dose of caffeine, but every time I glanced at my door, the image of last night came back.
The feeling of John’s warm jaw against my lips.
The prickle it left behind.
His scent that still lingered faintly on my shirt. Not that I’d been sniffing it.
Okay, I had.
And then I cursed myself.
He was my competitor. My arch-nemesis. And engaged.
To a goddess.
This was just a game to him. A trick he probably played on everyone.
I paused, realizing I’d been typing my thoughts about John instead of polishing the climactic battle scene that would decide Captain Caruso’s fate.
Concentrate, Nora.
A knock on the door.
I turned toward the sound, catching my reflection in the mirror that hung there.
The keyboard imprint hadn’t entirely faded—dehydration, probably—and my hair looked like I’d cuddled with an electric fence.
Another knock.
What was with these people? Why was I suddenly so popular?
I briefly considered pretending to be asleep. Or possibly dead.
But then I imagined Charlene’s expression if I missed half the morning again.
“Sorry, I’m busy. And naked!”
I cringed. That… sounded wrong.
Footsteps shuffled outside. Then receded.
Thank god.
I opened the photo album on my phone, ignoring the jolt of seeing John and me so close together, and tried to read the agenda I’d snapped a pic of yesterday.
Nothing until 2 p.m.
When I was sure the coast was clear, I opened the door—
And nearly stepped into breakfast.
A plate of eggs and tomatoes.
A bowl of porridge drizzled with honey.
And—God bless caffeine—a giant, steaming cup of black coffee.
I carried the tray inside and set it on the bed, wondering who my secret chef was.
Then I saw the squirrel mug.
Ah. May.
I stretched out on the bed and texted Otis.
Hey Oaty Schmoaty. How’s the stage fright?
Three dots popped up almost instantly.
Lots of panic. Very little disco. Miss you.
Miss you too. You’ll be amazeballs. Because you always are.
That should be your middle name, really.
In fact, changing your name in my phone right now to Oatcake Amazeballs.
See you tomorrow afternoon?
And you’ll introduce me to Jeremy?
I grimaced.
Otis’s love life was… complicated. I didn’t exactly want to invite that particular drama into the competition.
Only if you don’t get your heart involved.
Sigh. We’ll both be spinsters.
With a plethora of cats.
At 1:45 p.m. I shook feeling into my hands, rolled my neck until it cracked with satisfaction, and decided that no one—not even my arch-nemesis—needed to see work-mode Nora.
There were no en-suites, but two shared bathrooms across the hall.
When I flipped on the light in my usual one, the bulb flickered like it was hosting a rave. Nope, had to be on drugs to enjoy this one without getting a migraine.
I grabbed my leopard-print toiletry bag from above the sink and headed for bathroom number two.
Heat hit me. Then…something else.
There, in a cloud of steam, stood rolling muscle, sculpted shoulders, dimples carved into a lower back which had to be CGI. The back tapered into a very, very nicely formed—
“Can I help you?”
Oh no.
I was staring.
At John.
At naked John.
I shut my eyes and silently chanted boils, boils, boils, but it was no use.
There had definitely been no boils.
“Nora? It’s getting cold.”
My treacherous eyes popped open. Not my fault!
I inhaled and went on the defensive.
“Why on earth wouldn’t you lock the door when you’re…” I gestured widely. “Naked?”
He grabbed a towel from the rack and wrapped it around his waist, mercifully hiding things I should not have been admiring.
“I thought everyone was downstairs already. And why wouldn’t you knock?”
His damp hair curled boyishly across his forehead.
His body was… distracting.
Tiny rivulets of water ran down his torso and soaked into the towel.
So much man. So little cotton.
“Nora? My eyes are up here.”
I flinched. John’s demanding voice bounced off the walls of the tiny bathroom.
“Because I am…just…not…how…” My brain short-circuited. What were words, even? “I thought everyone was downstairs already.” I parroted his own excuse, hoping it passed as a full sentence.
John’s left eyebrow arched. “And you’re still here because…?”
“Because I needed this,” I said, grabbing the first item I could reach.
“Hemorrhoid cream?” His other brow joined the first, and he turned fully toward me. I focused all my energy on keeping my gaze above the neck. Ok, above the chest. Damn.
Then his words registered. I straightened up. “Yes. You have a problem with hemorrhoids?”
He casually rubbed moisturizer onto his stomach, which felt like a personal attack.
“No, but it seems you do.”
I grunted, spun on my heel, and shut the door with more force than necessary.
The shower I took in the adjacent bathroom was ice-cold.