Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
The man has taste. Goddammit.
John Kater really, really hates tattoos.
Rat encounters can give you PTSD.
I wish I could tell you I was an elegant swimmer. That I slid into the water like a mermaid, that I kept my cool, that John simply blinked and assumed he imagined me and went on with his business.
But...no.
Instead, the tall figure—98% smugness, 2% great bone structure—stood on the dock, hands in his pockets, while my teeth clattered so violently I thought I’d chip a molar.
“You need a hand?” he asked calmly, extending one toward me.
“Noooo…thankkkk…you,” I managed, arms flailing in an attempt to keep my limbs from cramping into rigor mortis.
“Nora,” he said, brow cocked with irritating patience, “your lips are turning blue.”
“It’s a…fashion…ch-choice,” I chattered. I couldn’t feel my legs anymore. I needed to get out of the water ASAP—but I was still clinging to my last bit of pride.
“You often swim fully clothed in the middle of the night?”
“Yes…you ssshould try it. It’s…refressshing.”
“Okay, then,” John said, turning toward his door.
Something brushed against my leg.
I let out a strangled gurgle and told pride to go to hell. “F-fine! But just because you p-robably have radioactive rats in your f-front yard!”
He clasped my arms and hauled me out of the lake like I weighed nothing.
“Let’s get you inside,” he said with maddening calm, pulling me into the warmth of the houseboat.
He closed the backdoor and then crouched before me.
“What are you d-doing?”
He didn’t answer but placed one of his warm, large hands onto the back of my leg. Then lifted my foot.
I had little choice but to steady myself on his broad shoulders.
Surprisingly gently, he tugged off one boot, then the other. Then came the socks. He seemed particularly careful not to touch my skin. I mean, fair. I was most likely contaminated with Bowie knows what.
“Shouldn’t you buy me dinner first?” I joked, my voice becoming steadier.
He stood without comment and I dropped my hands from his shoulders. Then he peeled my soaking coat away, draped it over his arm and with my soaking boots in his hands, left the room.
Before I had the chance to snoop, he returned with a thick towel and wrapped me in it like a human burrito.
“Why don’t you take a shower? Save your limbs.” He nodded toward the hall where his laptop bag leaned against the door. “Bathroom’s down there. I’ll bring you something dry.”
When I hesitated, he added, “Or you want to sit here naked?”
I kept my mouth shut and marched toward the bathroom, leaving puddles in my wake.
Ten minutes later, I was wrapped in a fresh towel, skin flushed from a scalding shower, and toes buried deep in a plush rug. I smelled like John’s soap—pine, cedarwood…and money.
The heat had brought back my circulation. Unfortunately, it also brought back clarity.
WHAT THE FUCK, NORA?
What the hell had I been thinking? Skulking around on John’s porch? Spying on him like some kind of deranged fan? Telling myself that I am totally not obsessed with him?
Maybe I could squeeze myself through the porthole window and disappear forever. The idea of facing him now and having to explain myself was worse than jumping back into the cold.
I stepped over the pile of wet clothes and did what any normal person would do when suddenly naked in their enemy’s bathroom.
I rummaged through his cabinets.
And only when I felt that weird flash of satisfaction did I realize what I was really looking for: signs of a second toothbrush. Of someone else.
God, Nora.
If I hadn’t fallen into a lake, I’d swear I’d hit my head.
A knock.
“Are you done snooping?”
Panic gripped me. I scanned the walls for cameras—but no, there were none. Because obviously. What kind of psychopath puts cameras in their own bathroom?
No. John just...knew me.
Which was worse. Scarier than being watched while washing your armpits.
“Like I care if you have hemorrhoids,” I snapped before I could stop myself.
A pause.
“I brought you some dry clothes.”
I cracked the door just wide enough to extend my hand. He passed me a bundle, gaze politely turned away.
“They may be a little big,” he said.
“I’ll make it work.”
Once the door was firmly locked again, I toweled off my bob and pulled on the clothes. “Shirt” was a generous term—it was more of a tent. Dove gray. Soft as sin. Definitely cashmere.
I pressed the fabric to my face before I could stop myself. Inhaled. Freshly laundered, but still undeniably him. Clean and expensive and somehow infuriatingly comforting.
I caught my reflection in the unsteamed patch of mirror.
“Weirdo. Get a grip.”
I tugged on the thick wool socks he’d given me, slipped into a pair of boxer shorts, and braced myself.
Then I opened the bathroom door.
Everything in here was earthy and muted.
Concrete and walnut finishes. Hanging plants.
Stacks of paper and warm, glowing light suspended from industrial lamps.
Mid-century furniture cut sleek lines through the room, centered by a thick circular rug.
A stack of vinyls waited beside a record player.
It was warm but elegant, effortless but expensive. Refined.
I trailed my fingers over a polished dresser, scanning the wall-to-wall bookshelf—neatly arranged, thoughtfully curated. It reminded me of Lew Elliott’s place. But less stuffy. Less performative.
John stepped into view.
He froze for half a second when he saw me. He tensed—barely—but I noticed. Then he moved again, setting two mugs down on the coffee table. He even used coasters for fuck’s sake.
Then he sat. Watching me. Watching him.
My shoulders inched higher. This was his territory. I was in his clothes. In his home.
And when his pupils dilated, I felt completely exposed. No idea where any of this was going. Would he call Charlene? Tell me to stay out of his business? Send me packing with a polite smile looking down from his moral high ground?
Then he brushed his thumb along his lip. “Beautiful.”
“What?” My voice was quieter than I meant it to be. My mouth dry. My nerves sharp. For a moment, it felt like we were back in Lew’s cottage. Like the world had stuttered, rerouted.
He nodded toward my legs. “Your tattoos.”
“Oh.” I tried not to be flattered. “I know.”
That made him laugh.
“Why don’t you have any?” I asked.
I remembered the muscle of his forearms, the smooth expanse of skin along his collarbone. Unmarked. Strong. I couldn’t quite picture him with ink. It didn’t fit the tabloid persona.
He shrugged, gesturing to the spot beside him on the sofa. “My PR team doesn’t think it fits the brand. And my father would probably disown me.”
I sat down, sinking into the soft leather beside him. “If I did what people expected of me, I’d be engaged and making wedding albums.”
He handed me a blanket, which I draped over my legs. Softer than the cashmere I wore. Even though I was fully covered, his eyes lingered—on my legs, then up, over the shirt, to the faint scar blooming on my stomach. The rose vines visible above the collar.
His gaze left a trail of pinpricks in its wake.
“Right,” he said, voice low. “But…sometimes the consequences of doing what we want are too much to take.”
Were we still talking about tattoos?
A silence settled, thick and charged. Then, finally, he sucked in a sharp breath.
“So,” he said, handing me a cup, “what had you swimming in my backyard?”
“People say it’s one of the best views in Chicago.” I sipped. The tea warmed my chest, calmed the last of my shivers.
“Just a surprise visit, then?”
“You weren’t supposed to be here,” I said before I could stop myself.
“So you followed us?”
“No.”
“I saw you, Nora. I told you hiding isn’t your strong suit.”
I glanced sideways at him.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” I muttered, shifting awkwardly. It felt…intimate. No makeup. No bra. Just me—barefaced and barefoot, in his oversized shirt. It was unnerving. It made me feel vulnerable. It made me feel restless.
He reached behind him. “You might be looking for this.”
My phone. Dripping wet.
“Crap.” I bolted upright. “I was supposed to meet Otis. And now I have no way to reach him. Or Mom. I—” Panic clawed at my chest. “I have to leave.”
John placed a firm hand on my arm and gently pushed me back down. “Like this?” His brow lifted, smirk still present.
I looked down. Bare legs. No shoes. No coat. No money.
“Where are you staying?” he asked. “I’ll take you there after your clothes are dry.”
“You’re drying my clothes?”
He nodded. “Might take a while. There was still a tag on the dress. I hope you weren’t planning to return it.”
“Fuck,” I groaned. “Yeah. I was.”
“Shame. I’m rather fond of it.”
My heart leapt into my throat. I ignored it and sank deeper into the couch. “I have no clue which hotel Otis booked.”
“I’ll text Jeremy. Let him know where you are.”
He started typing.
“Wait.” I reached out, placing my hand on his arm. “What will they think?”
He raised a brow. “What will they think? Don’t worry, Nora—I’ll say we’re having a glass of wine, and I’ll bring you to the hotel later. Or…you can stay in the guest room.”
He sent the message and set his phone down.
I glanced around the houseboat again, ignoring the fact that he’d just casually invited me for a sleepover. “You have a guest room?”
“Actually, no. You’ll sleep on the sofa.”
I turned to him. “The sofa? Me? Where are your manners?”
He leaned forward on his elbows. “Says the woman who tried to break into my house.”
“I wasn’t breaking in.”
“Only because you fell.”
“Only because you weren’t supposed to be here.”
“Why did you follow me?”
“Why didn’t you go with your fiancée?”
We had moved closer. Both leaning forward. Eyes locked. The air between us was electric—taunting, testing.
“Two truths and a lie,” he said.
I bit the inside of my cheek, then crossed my arms. I didn’t like the odds. “How about two lies and one truth?”
A smile tugged at his mouth. A dimple appeared. Dammit.
“Fine. Why are you here, Nora?”
I mulled over the question. “I wanted to see where you lived for...research purposes. I wanted to snoop around until I figured out what your story’s about.” I inhaled, then added, “And obviously, I came to rescue the poor ghostwriter you’ve got shackled in your basement.”
He crossed one ankle over the other. “Right. You’re terrible at lying, you know that?”
I scowled. I liked to be an enigma and usually, for most others, I was. “It was a misstep in judgment, okay?”
“And what led to that?” He sipped from his mug.
I leaned my head back on the sofa, closing my eyes to block out the mortification. “Isn’t it obvious? I panicked. Jeremy and May teamed up, and you’re…you.” I waved vaguely toward the bookshelf. “Polished. Published. Perfectly alphabetized. I just wanted to see what I’m up against.”
Silence.
I opened one eye, bracing for laughter. A cutting remark. Disappointment.
Instead, he stood and grabbed his phone. “Let’s get pizzas.”
My brain short-circuited. “What?”
“Stuffy French food never fills me up. Veggie?” he asked without looking up.
“You’re serious.”
“I can get you meat-lovers instead? Extra spicy?” He glanced at me, one brow raised. Totally serious.
He waited—not pushing, not prying. Just...letting me breathe.
And that made me like him way too much.
Suddenly, something furry launched into my lap. Black. Heavy. Purring.
My first thought was rat—PTSD from my late night swim—but then I looked down and met the unimpressed eyes of one very fat cat.
Queequeg.
“I think Queequeg wants you to stay and have pizza with us,” John said, casually scratching the cat behind the ears.
The fat cat started to make biscuits on my lap. Did I really have a choice? I exhaled, letting myself melt into the sofa.
“Extra spicy, please.”