Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I hate vodka. In any configuration.
There was no demon portal to be found in Lew Elliott’s cottage.
These walls are too thin.
“John, you seem distracted.”
Charlene’s voice cut through the warm hush of the room, her tone light but curious. I looked up just in time to catch John’s gaze flicking from me to her. He ran a hand over his face and murmured an apology.
It was late afternoon on day two. The living room glowed gold, washed in light from the tall windows.
The fire crackled quietly in the corner.
We’d veered from social media strategies to publishing timelines and marketing talk.
I had no idea when it happened—I’d checked out somewhere around “cross-platform engagement.” My own notebook was a mix of scattered bullet points and absentminded sketches.
In the top left corner of my page, May sat cross-legged on the rug, hugging a book like it held the secrets of the universe, still wearing mittens for reasons known only to her.
Jeremy was perched neatly in a leather chair, back straight, rainbow socks peeking out from under his crisply cuffed slacks.
John was at the center of the page. Of course he was.
One leg crossed over the other, the eraser of his pencil pressed thoughtfully to his lips.
I hadn’t even tried to capture his eyes.
Didn’t trust myself not to get stuck in the details.
Despite my best efforts to channel full teacher’s pet energy, talk of contracts and tour dates made my stomach twist. Instead of riding the wave of what felt suspiciously like an anxiety attack, I let my thoughts drift.
To Otis and his dress rehearsal on Friday.
To Mom, who expected another staged “couple’s” picture.
To the store and the flickering, possibly-possessed computer I’d left in Otis’s care.
To John.
The problem with having touched someone like him—having known them at their most unguarded—is that your body remembers. You remember. No matter how much you pretend otherwise.
I knew the taste of his skin. The way he sounded when he came apart. The exact way his pupils dilated when he watched me do the same. It was a terrible thing to know, when you also knew it couldn’t happen again.
My skin felt too tight. I was relieved when the group disbanded and I could retreat upstairs, putting literal walls—and a spare chair under the door handle—between us.
I was barely back at my desk, when my phone buzzed.
How are we doing?
Everything is very professional.
Boring.
Your lover boy can’t stop talking about you. He’s a good one.
I wish I was there.
Me too.
Btw.
Yes?
What would you think about carrying some romance? Had someone ask for a specific title today—and apparently we’ve had a lot of similar requests lately.
No.
Nora.
No. We are a science fiction and fantasy bookstore. Not a place for fuzzy love stories.
…
What?
… you’re the boss.
I felt a little bad. Truly. But Dad…Dad had poured so much time and heart into this store. He’d handpicked every title, shelved every copy of Dune like it was sacred. Changing it—turning it into something else—felt wrong. Like letting go of the last real piece of him. And I wasn’t ready for that.
When I finally tore my eyes off the screen, the words had started to blur and swirl. Out the window, I spotted Jeremy and May bundled in jackets, each holding a steaming mug, adding the finishing touches to a snow-sculpted TARDIS. Some warm little part of me wanted to join them. I shook my head.
Nora. Voluntarily joining social activities? Who even are you?
Instead, I stretched out across my bed, savoring the luxurious sheets. Wondered if anyone would notice if a set mysteriously disappeared into my suitcase.
I heard the backdoor shut. Jeremy and May making their way up the stairs and into their rooms.
I closed my eyes.
A floorboard creaked on the other side of the wall. Then another.
Someone else was clearly awake.
I stared at the ceiling and wondered what he was doing. What he was wearing. Then promptly asked myself what the hell was wrong with me.
I’d had him. That should’ve broken the spell. That was the rule. You obsess. You pine. You get what you want, and then—boom—you’re free. Unshackled. Ready to move on.
That’s how it always went.
Except this time…it hadn’t.
My ears strained for the tiniest sound. I couldn’t stop imagining him: shirtless, his hair a mess, laying in bed. Was he thinking about me?
Stop it, Nora.
I threw the blanket off and swung my legs over the edge of the bed, feeling overheated and restless. My reflection in the mirror was flushed, my eyes a little wild. Great.
I needed something to cool me down. I tiptoed to the kitchen. The fancy fridge—the kind with the built-in ice dispenser—was calling my name. The place was dark and quiet. Jeremy and May were gone, their mugs rinsed and drying on the rack.
I didn’t bother with a glass of cold water. I just opened the fridge and stuck my entire head inside, gulping down the cold air and willing it to give my brain frostbite, killing off any John related thoughts in the process.
I had no idea how long I stood there, just letting my pulse settle, my cheeks cool.
Then—
“I can assure you there are no demons in the fridge.”
I jolted, cracking my head on the door. Of course it was him. Of course he would quote Ghostbusters, one of my all time favorite movies.
Clutching my forehead and scrambling for a plausible explanation as to why I was half-inside a kitchen appliance, I turned to face him. And noticed—he looked a little flushed too.
“Just getting some…” I blindly reached beside me and held up a bottle.
“Vodka?” His brow lifted, amused.
I squinted at the label. Well, shit. “Yep. Felt like the right time for a drink.”
He stood in the doorway, wearing black track pants and a fitted T-shirt. His arms crossed over his chest. The motion pulled the fabric tight across his torso.
All I could think was: Those are the same arms that pinned me to a door.
Bad Nora. Bad Nora.
He cocked his head. “Did you just call yourself bad?”
I bit my lip. “No,” I said, letting out the fakest laugh known to man. “Just…want one?”
I held up the bottle, cursing myself internally. And I wanted to slap that one curl dangling over his forehead for having the audacity to make him look so soft.
“Sure.”
My heart skipped. It was pitch black outside. I was alone with John—for the first time since I’d literally fled his bed like the grown, emotionally stable woman I was.
I turned away to hide the tremble in my hands, grabbing two glasses and pouring a careful two fingers of clear liquid into each.
This was a bad idea. This was a bad idea. This was a bad idea.
He probably thought I was inviting him to some kind of midnight seduction.
He took the armchair by the fireplace. His gaze flicked to my shirt—the same one I’d worn when we first sat across from each other here in this very room. Except this time, I wasn’t wearing socks. This time, my bare legs stretched out, and I was fairly sure the shirt had shrunk in the last wash.
I masked my nerves with a half-hearted swagger, handed him his glass, and caught the moment his eyes flicked to my thighs as I sank onto the couch.
He took a slow sip, eyes never leaving me. “So how have you—”
“Two truths and a lie,” I blurted out, desperate to move my blood back into my brain.
He smirked, setting his glass down and resting his arms on his knees. “Okay. You start.”
I downed half my vodka, coughed a little at the burn, and fixed my gaze anywhere but on his face.
“I prefer vodka over whiskey,” I said, setting my glass next to his. “I have a secret drawer in my store. No one knows what’s in it. Not even Otis.”
Then, carefully: “I’d do anything to win this competition.”
I looked at him then, hoping he saw the truth in my eyes. Because I would. I would do anything to save my dad’s store.
“Even murder?” he asked, with a crooked smile.
“Possibly.”
He studied me in silence for a few seconds. “You don’t like vodka.”
I narrowed my eyes. “What makes you say that?”
He tapped his nose. “You wrinkled your nose when you saw the label.”
“Fine. Your turn.” I tried to sound breezy. It infuriated me how easily he could read me—like he knew me. Well, he didn’t.
Last time we’d sat here, there’d been mistrust between us. The air thick with the tension of two strangers who wanted the same thing. This time the tension was of a different nature.
He inhaled slowly, his shirt stretching tight across his chest, and I hated that I noticed. His whole Flynn Rider act had clearly worked on me.
“Queequeg misses you,” he said.
“Really?”
“You’re breaking the rules of the game by asking,” he said, half-scolding.
“It’s my game. I get to make the rules.”
He bit his lip. Damn him. He traced the rim of his glass with one finger.
Seconds passed.
We were either in a staring contest or time had officially stopped. I wasn’t sure which.
He took another breath, deeper this time, and when he finally spoke, his voice dropped an octave.
“If I were smarter, I wouldn’t do this.”
“Do what?” I asked, breath catching, because suddenly, the air in the room was made of molasses.
“This.”
John stood before I could even squeak out a protest. He crossed the room in two strides, cupped the back of my neck, and tilted my head up—just enough to toe the line between commanding and uncomfortable—and kissed me. Hard.
His teeth bumped against mine. He sucked my lip. His tongue demanded space before my brain even caught up. And the second I tasted him—vodka-laced and all John—every coherent thought dissolved.
Oh, god. He tasted like sin and temptation and something I’d been craving since the moment I left his bed.
“I shouldn’t do this,” he murmured between kisses, grazing my lower lip, trailing along the edge of my mouth. “But you’re driving me insane, Nora.”
I didn’t answer. Words? Never heard of them. Instead, I grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled him closer, deeper.
The floor creaked.
“Oh,” said a startled voice behind me.
We broke apart like we’d been scorched. I practically leapt away from him.
Jeremy stood in the doorway, a glass of water in hand, eyes wide. “Am I…interrupting something?”
“No,” I said at the exact same moment John growled, “Yes.”
He hadn’t moved. Still braced over me, eyes still burning.
I bolted. Not gracefully. I muttered some excuse about heading to bed and fled before I could meet anyone’s eyes.
By the time I shut my bedroom door, I was out of breath, my lips still tingling. I pressed my fingers to them and smiled—because they ached in the best way.
And that’s when it hit me.
John hadn’t given me a lie.