Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.
It can’t possibly be a bad idea.
He’s the Buffy to my Willow.
John’s cat woke me by landing with a thump on my stomach, purring.
I rubbed my face, surprised I’d managed to fall asleep at all. The light stung my eyes. And then it all came rushing back.
Stalking John and his movie-star fiancée.
Plunging into a freezing lake.
Cashmere shirts.
Pizza.
Movies.
And... almost kisses.
Oh god.
I’d nearly kissed New York Times bestselling author John Kater. And worse—he’d stopped me. That was the part I couldn’t recover from. Not the nearly making out thingy. The rejection.
The bedroom door was cracked open, like someone had peeked in. But the houseboat was silent.
I buried my face into the pillow, breathing in his scent. That woodsy, expensive, distinctly John smell. It filled me with a longing so fierce, it practically vibrated under my skin.
But I had to shake it off. This…wanting. I had a slip up, that was all.
This wasn’t like me.
Sure, I flirted. I drank. I made out with cute strangers on questionable sofas. But I didn’t catch feelings. Not like this.
It had been a lapse in judgement. A moment of weakness that John—with his perfect timing and infuriating restraint—had seen coming a mile away. Honestly, I should thank him for stopping it. For not letting it happen.
Queequeg leapt off the bed and padded into the hallway, meowing like he was announcing me to the world.
Thanks, cat.
I just needed to act normal. Get dressed. Walk out like we’d simply eaten dinner and then I’d gone to bed like a civil adult. No big deal.
I followed the sound of his meowing, stomach in knots, head full of practiced excuses.
But I needn’t have worried.
The place was empty.
My clothes were folded neatly on the kitchen table. My phone rested beside them, and on top of it all was a note. Just a simple, square slip of paper.
Had to run.
Made coffee.
Just pull the door for it to lock.
–J.
I stared at it.
That was it?
No “Hope you slept well.” No “Sorry about last night.” Not even a cheeky see you around.
Just three clipped lines and a clear message: Show yourself out.
Understood.
I leaned against the table, unlocked my phone. The screen flared to life—thank Bowie.
Otis had sent a flurry of messages full of exclamation marks, winky faces, and entirely too many eggplant emojis.
Mom had texted. Just checking in—which meant Call me immediately.
But from John? Nothing.
Which was... fine.
It was.
Totally, utterly, fine.
I got dressed, filled a cup to the brim with John’s annoyingly perfect coffee, and called Otis.
“Has someone died?” Otis answered, no hello.
I sipped.
“Why would you think that?”
“Because you hate calling.”
He wasn’t wrong. I never called him. But something about today made me crave his voice—warm, familiar, grounding. I wanted to tell him everything. How I’d almost kissed John. Like some lovesick schoolgirl dying to spill secrets about her crush to her bestie. It was pathetic. I had to rein it in.
“Just…missed you.”
“Haha, sure.” He clearly didn’t believe a word. “Where are you? I’ll pick you up for brunch.”
“I’ll meet you at the hotel. I need to change.”
“Interesting,” he said, grinning audibly. “I want the full debrief.”
“You’re the one talking. See you soon.”
I washed the cup, gave Queequeg a final head scratch, and stood in the doorway for a moment. Just one last glance.
Then I stepped into the cold.
When I got to the hotel, Otis was sprawled across the bed in an oversized bathrobe, mimosa in hand.
“You look awful,” he said with too much cheer.
“And you look suspiciously happy.” I kicked off my boots and flopped onto the bed beside him. “What base are we talking?”
Otis leaned back on one elbow and sipped his mimosa. The citrus and alcohol combo hit my nose and made my stomach tilt.
“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” he said, practically glowing.
“I see no gentleman,” I muttered.
“You’re right.” He flicked his wrist like a magician about to reveal his next trick. “So, I took Jeremy for a drink…”
He launched into a play-by-play of their night: how he’d tried to impress Jeremy with a string of overpriced cocktail bars, only for them to end up at a tiny Italian place sipping five-dollar house wine and holding hands under the table like they were in a 90s rom-com.
I hadn’t seen Otis beam this bright since he found a signed Barbra Streisand LP in a thrift store.
“And then…we kissed. Just once.” He took another sip, smacking his lips in delight. “It was dreamy. It was perfect. I want to marry him.”
I sat up. “You? Wanting to marry a guy you just met?” I nudged him with my foot. “Must be a Thursday.”
He clutched his chest in mock-offense. “I’m serious, Nora. He is the one.”
Warning bells rang. Loud ones. I didn’t want Otis getting hurt. I didn’t want Jeremy getting hurt. It already felt weird that one of my closest friends was dating someone I was supposed to be competing against. But I swallowed my skepticism.
“I’m happy for you,” I said instead.
“Good, because I’m happy for me too.” His tone softened. “We’re hanging out again tonight. Hope that’s okay?” he asked—not that it was really a question.
I bit back a sigh. Our last night in Chicago, and I’d been planning on hiding from the group.
Maybe calling in sick to Charlene with a fake case of malaria, skipping the team meeting, and eating room service in bed while trying to reboot my entire emotional operating system.
But Otis was practically vibrating with joy.
“Of course,” I said. “You wouldn’t want to miss a chance to look up property prices and name your five future kids.”
“Three kids,” he corrected smoothly, “and I would never leave you.”
“Not even for Prince Charming?”
“It’s tempting,” he admitted, “but no. You’re the Willow to my Buffy.”
By the time we headed out for the group dinner, my skin felt like it was crawling. The kind of slow, itchy anxiety that made it hard to sit still.
John was late.
The rest of the group—May, Jeremy, Charlene, and Otis—were all deep in animated conversation, sampling the entire cocktail menu one by one. The hotel lounge we’d met at was all velvet sofas and low lighting, soft jazz spilling through the speakers.
I twirled the paper umbrella in my drink and tried, really tried, to focus. But my thoughts kept circling back.
To John’s hand on my thigh.
To the sting of the cat scratch, still faintly burning.
To the humiliating memory of nearly throwing myself at him like some lovesick idiot.
I needed to clear the air. To tell him it wasn’t what it looked like. That I wasn’t trying to seduce him. That it was proximity and stress and possibly not getting laid in a while—though, maybe that last part could stay unspoken.
I groaned quietly and took another sip of my drink. I really should’ve taken Claire up on her offer last week. Just…cleared the pipes.
“John sends his apologies. He won’t be joining,” Charlene announced suddenly.
For a second, I panicked, wondering if I’d said his name out loud. But then I saw her phone and realized—he was texting her.
“Let’s just get started,” she added. “Here’s how the next round will work…”
I turned my own phone over. Blank screen.
No message. Not even a stupid emoji.
Otis caught my eye. I flipped the screen back down.
Thirty minutes later, after smiling and nodding my way through the meeting like a malfunctioning animatronic at a theme park, I excused myself and headed for the bathroom.
The mirror didn’t do me any favors. The industrial light and glossy black tile only made it worse—my skin looked feverish, my eyes glassy, my lips bitten-red.
The door opened behind me.
“This is for little girls only,” I said.
“Little girls, bad bitches, same difference,” Otis replied, leaning against the sink next to me. “So. You gonna tell me what happened?”
To his credit, Otis hadn’t pushed for info on John. Not this morning, nor on our way here.
I turned on the tap, washing my hands just for something to do. “I don’t know what you mean.”
His reflection raised both brows. “You spent the night at John’s. And today, you’re walking around looking all dazed and horny.”
I froze. “Oh, no. I do?”
Otis waved a hand. “It’s fine. To anyone who doesn’t know you, it might just look like syphilis.”
“Dodged a bullet there,” I muttered, rummaging through my Vivienne Westwood knockoff in search of my chapstick. My lips were practically raw from chewing on them nervously.
“Nora Rose,” he said, gasping like a Broadway ingénue, head thrown back. “You don’t have to tell me anything. But maybe… just a hint?”
Of course. I knew he wouldn’t be able to hold it in much longer.
“Nothing happened.”
Otis gave me a look that said try again.
“Fine. Almost nothing happened. We watched TV, ate some food… then nearly kissed.”
He gasped.
“I made a complete fool of myself.” I buried my face in my hands and leaned against the sink, too ashamed to look at him. I knew that smug little smirk would be right there waiting for me.
“That would be very on-brand for you.”
“I’m serious. He probably thinks I have a crush on him. Like…feelings.”
“And of course, you don’t,” Otis said, eyes wide with mock innocence.
I peeked at him from beneath my arm. “Of course not. He’s the enemy.”
“Love,” he said, pulling my fire-engine red lipstick out of my purse, “you know how I feel about morally gray villains.” He pulled me toward him and began applying the lipstick with all the delicate precision of a mother hen pimping out her daughter.
“This isn’t like that. The forced proximity, the rivalry—”
“—basically the plot of a rom-com.”
I scowled at him. “Exactly. And we both know the last place you’d find me is in a goddamn rom-com.”
He handed me a tissue, then smacked his lips theatrically. “Do what you must.”