Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Some mistakes were made.
Not my first one-night stand.
I truly, truly hate John Kater.
At first, I was disoriented.
Then came the full-body jolt.
I was in John Kater’s bed. With John Kater.
Fucking hell.
I blinked against the too bright morning light. Trying to get my bearings.
Beside me, John’s back rose and fell in a steady rhythm. His dark curls sprawled over the pristine white pillow. His long lashes rested in stillness. The curtain cast a soft shadow over his cheekbone, his three day stubble.
My heart thudded wildly. The urge to lean in, to drag my nose along the line of his shoulder, to breathe him in, was almost too much.
Instead, I pulled away. Craning my neck to survey the scene of the crime. My clothes were scattered across the room. I had no clue where my phone or my underwear were. An industrial-looking clock on a mid-century dresser told me it was half way through the morning.
I sat up—and didn’t know what the hell to feel.
There was giddiness. A buzz in my fingertips. They itched to brush the warmth of his skin.
There was lust. Echoed by the sweet ache that pulsed between my legs. I could just climb back under the covers and kiss him awake.
But then my sensible self reminded me that this was bad news. Very bad. He’d wake, look at me, and regret every second. Or worse—he’d pretend nothing happened.
But wasn’t this why I came here in the first place? Maybe the tension was finally broken. Maybe now we could go back to good old-fashioned mutual loathing.
Why didn’t I feel relieved then?
I laid back, staring at the ceiling, willing time to slow. To just stay here in this suspended moment. Keep him beside me a little while longer. Bathe in the scent of us—me and him. Skin and sweat and something I couldn’t name.
Then he stirred.
I panicked.
I tiptoed out of bed, hunting through the war zone of clothes and blankets in the living room. Found my jeans and my bra (under the coffee table).
I touched my swollen lips in the mirror. A red mark bloomed along my neck. My eyes were glassy. How was any of this real?
Flashes came back: John shoving my jacket off my shoulders. His tongue moving with mine. His fingers in my hair, his body pressing into mine, inside me—
I gripped the sink. My breath came fast. My chest tightened with something that felt suspiciously like longing.
Get it together, Nora.
I’d done this before. One-night stands. I knew the drill.
A polite smile. A vague “let’s text.” A fake number.
Sometimes just: Sorry, I’m not the dating kind.
So why did I feel so completely off-script now?
I washed my face in ice cold water and decided it must’ve been the lack of coffee. That was the only explanation.
As the machine sputtered to life and the black furball jumped onto the counter, I realized what felt so terribly off:
I didn’t have the urge to run.
And that terrified me more than sleeping with my competition.
More than one of Mom’s cryptic midnight calls.
More than the thought of losing the shop if I couldn’t pay the rent in time.
The coffee trembled in my hands. I placed the cups on the counter, watching in a daze as some of the brew sloshed over and trickled down John’s spotless kitchen counter.
I could go back in. Hand him his coffee. Laugh it off. Blame it on the alcohol, on the movies, on… whatever. Just another bad decision in a sea of them.
But no. I did what every stable, mature, self-respecting woman does after a one-night stand.
I made a run for it.
Shoes on. Bag in hand. Quiet as a mouse. I was halfway to the door, daylight haloing the porthole—freedom just steps away—when:
“Nora.”
Shit.
I froze just outside the bedroom door I hadn’t bothered to close. Why didn’t I close it?
I turned, trying for casual. “Oh, hey.”
Like we were old acquaintances and not like competitors who made each other come last night.
He leaned against the doorframe, shirtless, hair a mess, voice gravelly with sleep. “You’re panicking, aren’t you?”
I made a snort-laugh-choke noise. “No, like, totally not, uh…”
God, why did his morning face have to be even hotter than his regular face? His eyelids were half-lowered, lips still swollen, like he’d just stepped out of a very wet dream.
“Well. Bye, then,” I said too quickly, heart galloping like I’d stolen something. I had to leave before I did something truly humiliating, like ask to stay.
“I’ll see you at the cabin,” he said.
I promptly tripped over the doorframe.
“Smooth exit,” John muttered, amused.
I flipped him off without looking back, unsure if he saw it, and practically launched myself through the front door.
As I stepped into the sharp slap of Chicago’s winter air, I made myself a solemn, binding promise:
Never. Ever. Let this happen again.