Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Someone’s turned the radiator up. It’s positively hot in here.
‘Viv’ is an Oatcake.
He doesn’t want “it”.
The sofa was technically roomy—but John was a giant, so we kept brushing elbows, knees, pinkies.
Accidentally. Mostly. I popped open the beer bottle and settled deeper under the blanket.
My stomach was filled to bursting, but luckily his boxer shorts left room for the full aftermath of my pizza-baby.
My head felt heavy, pleasantly drowsy. I was way too comfortable to consider leaving. Also, the thought of staying the night sent a thrill up my spine I had no business entertaining.
Jeremy had texted John to say Otis was in good hands.
We picked a movie. Army of the Dead. A classic.
I remembered the first time I saw a zombie movie—Dad had shown it to me while Mom was out with her girlfriends.
I’d been thirteen, glued to the screen the moment a rotted hand shot out of the grave.
After that, our Friday nights became sacred: B-horror flicks, 70s sci-fi, The X-Files.
My Dad all to myself, a table loaded in junk food, and the fluke man.
On screen, a guy took a spear to the skull, blood and fake brain splattering the lens. I cheered. John snorted and clinked his bottle against mine.
“You’re a weirdo.”
I sank deeper into the cushions, pressing against his side. I couldn’t move if I wanted to. Queequeg had claimed my lap, kneading biscuits into my thighs like I was freshly risen dough.
“Did you notice the whole zombie thing is just a metaphor?” I asked.
John gave me a sceptical look.
“No, really. Think about it.” I shifted, sitting cross-legged. The cat grumbled but didn’t move. My blanket slipped off, but the beer buzz kept me from caring.
“And the MC’s arc reflects the state of humanity—how we rot, rebuild, crave meaning...”
He watched the screen for a moment as a zombie took a satisfying bite out of a protagonist’s neck. “Well, shit. You’re right.”
I raised my arms in victory. “Finally. Someone I can overanalyze movies with.”
“I still think you’re crazy,” he said, smirking into his beer bottle. “Just…an endearing kind of crazy.”
I turned back to the screen before he could see me grin.
Sitting here with him…it felt like walking a tight rope. One wrong move and the balance would shatter. But for now, we weren’t fighting. We weren’t competing. We were just…here. Like friends…or something.
Beyond Belief came on.
“Fact or Fiction? My name is Jonathan Frakes…” we both said at once. Then laughed.
“I haven’t seen this in forever,” John said as Frakes introduced three paranormal stories, his voice serious, eyebrows on point.
“I used to be so afraid of this show.”
John winced. “Man. I forgot how young you are.”
“Old enough to kick your ass out of the competition.”
“You can try.” He raised his bottle. “Last one.”
I took it. His fingers brushed mine. Just a little. Just enough.
“Oh no. It’s the guillotine episode.” I buried my face in my hands.
“I don’t think I ever saw that one.”
“It’s amazing. And terrible. And I will absolutely have nightmares.”
“We just watched zombies eat people’s faces, and this scares you?”
“So, you’re afraid of nothing?”
He took the bottle back from my hands, fingers grazing again—faint but definite.
“Well…” He swirled the beer as if thinking on it. “I’ll murder you and all your future descendants if you ever tell anyone.”
I leaned in, catching the lines around his eyes, the faint arch of his brows, the warm scruff of his beard. “Tell me.”
John dipped his head in a conspiratorial way. “I’m deathly afraid someone will find out how much I love Meg Ryan.”
I stared at him. “What?”
He shrugged. “I can’t help it. I love her. I love her movies.”
“You’re serious?”
“I’m a huge fan.”
“So, let me get this straight. John Kater—poster boy for brooding male authors—likes rom-coms?”
He didn’t even flinch. “Guilty.”
I twisted in my seat and mock-inspected the room. “What dimension have I landed in?”
John shrugged.
“They make me feel good. All hope and happy endings. You know exactly what you’ll get.”
The corner of my mouth tugged up. It was...unexpectedly endearing. I thought of the pastel spines on his bookshelf I’d written off as Vivian’s.
“So those”—I pointed—“are really yours?”
I needed him to say yes. I needed to know this wasn’t some elaborate bit. That he hadn’t been playing me.
He took a swig from his beer, cheeks pinking ever so slightly. “I told you. Viv and I aren’t...real. There’s nothing of hers in this house.”
“Boat,” I corrected.
“Semantics.”
The tightness in my chest loosened. A little. I should’ve stopped there. But I didn’t.
“So why the farce, John?”
His eyes landed heavy on mine. Something deflated in his chest. “I wish I could tell you.”
“I can keep secrets,” I whispered. I even smiled a little, as if to say It’s safe here. You can trust me. Let me in.
“It’s not that easy,” he whispered back.
“You two seemed...close.”
A rare smile crept across his face—unforced, soft. “She’s my best friend.”
I raised a brow. “Vivian Garner is your Oatcake?”
The smile deepened. Hello, dimple. “I don’t know what that means, but sure.”
A wave of relief hit me so fast it was embarrassing. I looked away before he could see it. “Okay, then. Which Meg Ryan movie is your favorite?”
I scanned the shelves for a familiar title. The fact that John Kater loved romance? That he believed in happy endings? That he shared this fact with me? It was messing with my equilibrium.
“You’ve Got Mail,” he said.
“Of course it is.” I took another drink.
He shifted closer, not taking his eyes of the screen. “Can you keep another secret?”
My heart skipped. His cologne hit my senses—pine and cedar and trouble. The flickering TV cast shadows across his throat, his open shirt, his collarbone.
“Sure,” I breathed.
A muscle twitched in his jaw. He must’ve felt my breath on his cheek.
“I have all her movies on VHS. Well, all but one.”
I barked a laugh. “I know you’re old, but now you’re just taking the piss.”
“Not joking. City of Angels is impossible to find.”
“You’re so weird,” I muttered, watching the way the light sculpted his jaw. “Have you ever thought about writing one?”
His shoulders stiffened. Just a little. “It’s not that easy.”
Which wasn’t a no.
“You don’t have to write it for anyone else,” I said gently. “Just for yourself. Indulge a little.”
I placed my empty bottle on the table. He didn’t reply for a long moment. Long enough I started thinking maybe that was the end of it. But then—
“I think once people expect a certain kind of work from you, it becomes hard to be anything else.”
His voice was soft. Honest. It sat heavy between us.
On the screen, a blade dropped with a clang. I flinched. The cat jumped off my lap. “Fuck!” I yelped and covered my eyes as the scene that caused me many nightmares as a preteen flickered across the screen.
An arm slid around my back. Most likely out of instinct. But, to my dismay, I loved how it felt. His broad hand on my back. My cheek pressed to John’s shoulder, his clean shirt soft against my skin. His scent. Him.
I peeked up.
“You okay?” he asked, smiling—that smile. Dimples and all.
“Yeah,” I mumbled.
He touched the scratch Queequeg had left behind, fingers brushing my thigh. “Little bastard.”
His hand lingered. Burning my skin. My pulse quickened its pace.
Our eyes locked.
I couldn’t help it. My gaze dropped to his mouth.
The smile vanished. The line of his lips tensed. His hand, that had been rubbing slow circles on my leg, stilled, turning warmth into heat, heat into want.
Neither of us moved. The longer the seconds stretched, the more dangerous this felt and the more difficult it would be to shrug this odd silence off.
My neck flushed hot. My lips parted on the tiniest exhale.
His eyes darkened. And then...
The sofa must have shrunk because we suddenly shared the same breath. The tips of our noses brushed, sending sparks along my spine. Twisting my gut in pleasurable pain. He closed his eyes.
“Nora…” he whispered.
I should stop.
Pull away. Shove him. Curse him. Something.
But the usual alarm bells were nothing more than a distant hum. Every nerve in my body was tuned to the places where we touched—the tip of his nose brushing mine. His warm palm on my thigh. The hand at my back sliding higher, until his fingers curled into the base of my skull.
I wanted to lift myself onto his lap. Straddle him. Feel his hard body press into all my soft places.
I wanted to run.
I wanted—
“You are…” John squeezed my thigh. Just once.
A gasp escaped me before I could catch it. There was no pretending anymore. No excuse for either of us lingering in the other person’s space this long.
I slid my palms up his pristine shirt, feeling the ridges of muscle beneath, grazing the stubble along his jaw. I drank in every texture of him—John Kater. My fingers slipped into his hair, clutching, pulling him closer. Desperate to close the gap.
If he didn’t touch me—really touch me—I was going to combust.
His head dipped. His lips angled—
“Nora, stop.”
I reeled back as if I’d been slapped. Scrambled to my feet on shaking legs. Had I misread everything that just happened? Had I just thrown myself at him?
Oh god.
“I’m sorry,” I said, backing up a step. “Forget it. I read it wrong.”
“Nora.” He reached for my hand, catching it before I could run. “That’s not—”
I tried to pull away. Vivian flashed through my mind. Beautiful, elegant Vivian. A Hollywood star.
Of course John would want someone like her. What the hell had I been thinking?
“I thought you didn’t want—” I started, then stopped, heat crawling up my neck. “Never mind.”
He pulled me toward him. Close enough that I had no choice but to meet his gaze.
His eyes were dark. Hungry. Torn.
He guided my hand into his lap. Where I felt…everything.
Oh. OH.
His voice was rough and low. “It’s not the wanting that’s the problem. Trust me.”
My thighs clenched tightly together. My mind reeling over what my palm was feeling.
“Okay,” was all I managed to say. All that was left in my English vocabulary. Verdammt.
His eyes snagged once more on my parted lips. “I just can’t.” Then he pulled away. Leaving me burning.
Air rushed from my lungs. I suddenly felt disoriented.
On screen, a commercial blared. Something loud and cheerful. The noise was jarring.
John stood, avoiding my gaze. “It’s late. I’ll show you to your room.”
I followed, legs still wobbly, unsure how to hold my body, unsure what had just happened. Or almost happened. Not wanting to remind him how he’d told me I'd be the one sleeping on the sofa.
He opened a small door, flicking on a warm bedside lamp. The glow landed on a tall stack of books beside an unmade bed.
Cozy. Private. A porthole window winked in the dark.
John stood in the doorway, staring at the bed like it held answers to unvoiced questions.
Then he dragged a hand through his curls, smoothing the duvet and fetching a spare comforter from a built-in wardrobe.
He laid it across the foot of the bed—methodical, careful, avoiding my eyes the whole time.
All while I stood in his doorway, in his oversized shirt, like an un-kissed idiot.
“I hope this is alright.”
Our gazes didn’t meet until he was outside of his door, looking back at me.
“Well. Sleep tight,” I said, idiotically kicking myself over the dumbest words the universe had ever heard. Sleep tight?
John just nodded once. Then gently closed the door.
I dropped onto the mattress, skin burning, thoughts spinning.
And I knew—without question—I wasn’t getting a single second of sleep tonight.