Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Bond girls have to be accessible by nature.
He made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.
I wish I was wearing a chastity belt.
I’d just finished polishing the ending of my story, which was now way more dramatic with a climax that was pretty rad, if I did say so myself.
In two days, we’d send out the final manuscripts to the board.
After that, it’d be out of my hands completely.
The internet would get an extra three chapters to vote on.
Those votes, combined with the board’s decision, would determine who got the chance to turn those rows of black and white into a real novel that people would hold in their actual hands and slip into their bags.
Put on their nightstand. Maybe even recommend to friends.
The thought was thrilling. Almost terrifying.
But the most important thing? It could save the shop.
I often found myself daydreaming about what I’d do with the money.
Buy the shop out. Pay the energy bills. Upgrade to faster internet.
Give the walls a fresh coat of paint—it hadn’t had one since the grand opening.
I’d get new shelves. Maybe a coffee machine for the customers.
A couple of plush velvet sofas for people to stretch out on.
Heck, I liked the idea of a community board, too.
I could renovate that windowless back room into something useful, like a writer’s workshop or a book club space—or even a kids’ reading nook.
Maybe install a security system. Host author signings. ..
I sighed and glanced out the window, where two squirrels dashed up the pines, their bushy tails disappearing among the snow-covered branches. There were so many things I wanted to do. So many possibilities. It was all within reach. If only I could keep my head straight.
My phone buzzed, and I sighed, preparing to send Otis my usual, “I’ll tell you when I get home, go back to work” message. But it wasn’t Otis.
It was John.
Just seeing his name made my pulse race.
You okay?
I wasn’t okay.
Perfectly fine. You?
Can’t sleep. Can’t work.
I rolled my eyes. So, he was bored. And I was his closest source of entertainment. No, sir. I flopped onto my bed and typed my response.
Poor Mr. Bestselling Author can’t sleep. Maybe this competition is getting to you. Time to quit?
It’s not the competition that’s getting to me.
My face flushed. No, I wasn’t doing this. The thing in the shed had been another temporary lapse in judgment.
I started typing something, then deleted it, well aware that he could see me doing it. I could practically hear his impatience from the other side of the wall. Before I could muster a proper response, another message popped up.
What are you wearing?
I bit my lip. I wasn’t smiling at his message. Not at all.
A bite guard. Sweats. A chastity belt.
I like a challenge.
I heard the bed creak on the other side. We were only inches apart.
Go back to work.
Yes, I should.
Good. He got the hint. I tossed my phone to the farthest edge of the bed, but stopped when I saw the screen light up again.
Fine. I’d read it, then turn the phone off.
Or...
Or...?
You could come over.
There it was. I pressed my face into the pillow, stifling a frustrated groan.
My brain said no, and it was my choice. He didn’t knock on my door—he’d given me the option to come to him.
I wanted to send back another quick-witted reply, something to show how unaffected I was by him.
But my mind was blank and on fire at the same time.
Did I mention how confusing it was to be me?
Charlene and the others were only walls away. What if they saw me enter his room? What if they heard...anything?
I pressed my thighs together at the thought of the things John could do to make me moan too loud. The memory of his hand covering my mouth.
I shouldn’t.
I wouldn’t.
I knocked on his door.
A shuffle. A throaty, “Come in.”
I gave myself one last chance to leave, willing my feet to gain control and save me from myself. I took a deep breath. It didn’t help.
I opened the door.
His hair was ruffled. He was sitting on his bed, collarbone on display, the pristine shirt unbuttoned. John looked like he was ready to shoot a perfume commercial with Bella Hadid. Scoundrel. He knew exactly what he was doing.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said, patting the spot beside him on the bed.
“Neither did I,” I replied, closing the door behind me. I leaned my weight against it instead of following his invitation.
He smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. “So why did you?”
“To tell you that this is stupid and has to stop.”
He jutted out his bottom lip. I wanted to sink my teeth into it. “Really?”
“Yes. You’re not that irresistible, Mr. Fancy Author.”
“I believe that. However, I am at an impasse.”
“And why is that?”
He took a deep breath. “If I have to spend another hour across from you, without touching you, I will die.”
I snorted. He was teasing me. “If it were only that easy to get rid of you.”
“It was pure torture to sleep in a bed that smells like you, Nora. Why did you run?”
I swallowed. “I’m not...” My voice came out raspy, so I cleared it, irritated. “I left because I didn’t want to make any of this more complicated than it has to be. And you saying all those things right now isn’t helping.”
“You complicate things by merely existing.”
“Oh, please.” Now I had to roll my eyes.
“You don’t have any idea what you’re doing to me, do you?” The sincerity in his gaze caught me off guard.
“Are you making fun of me?” I crossed my arms, suddenly unsure of what to do with them. We’d entered serious territory. It was confusing. I’d never seen him so...unraveled. I crossed my arms to keep them from accidentally unbuttoning his pants.
He brushed his face with his hands, shaking his head, looking up at me with a pained expression. “No, you’re just fucking delectable by nature, Nora. Sitting by the fire, writing. Not wearing a bra under those band tees of yours. Having the audacity to smell this fucking good.”
“I smell good?” I smiled, the fluttering in my belly impossible to ignore. Didn’t know if I wanted to.
He bit his lip. “Ink and coffee and rose perfume. It’s strongest on your neck, which looks positively edible when you tilt it.” Not to fall into rom-com territory, but his eyes were positively smoldering.
“This neck?” I tilted my head, unable to hide the smirk. Bad Nora. Worst Nora.
John rose, moving around the bed to meet me. His hand slipped under my jaw, his thumb tilting my face, exposing my neck.
“Just...like...that.” He brushed his thumb along the exposed skin to where my short bob grazed my jaw. Over my pulse point. I didn’t know what to do with my body. I was a puppet—helpless. I was fucked.
Or hoped to be.
NORA.
“So beautiful. I want to sink my teeth into that porcelain skin of yours. Again.”
The memory of the fading love bites along my thighs had me clenching them now.
“John,” I said, sternly this time, pushing his hand away even though it almost physically hurt to do so. But there was still a part of my brain that wasn’t horny, thank fuck, and reminded me that all of this was:
Bad news. A waste of time. Would end in heartbreak.
“We have to stop. You’re engaged.”
He brushed his thumb over my lower lip, staring at me with his incredibly dark eyes. “I told you it’s fake.”
“It’s still a fact.”
His jaw clenched, and he nodded. I thought that was it, but then he took my hand, intertwining our fingers, and pulled me to sit beside him on the bed.
There was nothing sexual about the gesture.
He sat as far away from me as possible while still holding my hand.
The bed dipped as he shifted his weight.
“What are you doing?”
“I think it’s time I told you about Vivian.”
He hung his head low, studying his shoes. “I’m not with Vivian. I never was. She is...with someone else.”
A pause. I could feel there was something else coming. Something bigger.
He twisted his watch with his free hand and finally looked up at me.
“Promise me this stays between us. You and me. No word to Otis, or your mom.”
I nodded. He exhaled. “Vivian wouldn’t have ever gotten the Bond Girl role if the world knew she was...gay.”
Not where I thought this was going.
“She’s been with her makeup artist, Stephanie, for nearly four years now. If anyone—if the press…” He broke off. “If they found out, her career would be over.”
I straightened. “Okay, but this isn’t the sixties. A lot of people are open about their sexuality. I don’t understand why—”
“No, I guess it’s hard to understand unless you’re her.
” He ground his teeth. “Vivian’s been my closest friend for over a decade.
She’s worked so hard for this. Too hard.
Every role she’s had led her down this path.
Last summer, someone talked. The press loves to dig deep if they think they’ve got a story, especially before a big release.
The production company nearly dropped her.
” John folded his hands, then unfolded them. “This is her dream.”
“You got engaged so people would stop asking questions.” It wasn’t a question.
From the outside, it could look like a minor inconvenience.
I could see that the target audience of a Bond movie—white, cis, straight men—might not like the idea of the Bond girl actually being unavailable.
That he, god forbid, never really had a chance.
It would ruin the fantasy. I could see people boycotting the movie, Vivian’s career getting threatened.
And coming out? Not everyone had Otis’s supportive parents.
I had friends at Garland’s who lost their families because of the small-mindedness of the people they grew up with.
As a celebrity, the pressure to perform, to be a persona, must be suffocating.
If Otis had worked his whole life for an opportunity like that, and a rumor threatened it, hell. ..I’d marry him in a heartbeat.
And now, John was handing me this—his best friend’s secret. If I spoke, I could ruin his Oatcake.
“Why are you telling me this?”
He tugged a strand of hair behind my ear. “Because these are all the truths I can part with right now. If I were smarter, I’d stay away from you. But maybe for once I want to be selfish.” He dropped his hands. “I have a proposal for you. Do you want to hear it?”
I raised a brow, pretending to deliberate. “I guess.”
He pulled me closer until our knees touched. His eyes flickered to my lips. “We both agree this is a bad idea, right?” He dragged his finger over my lips.
“Right.” My breath hitched.
“And you don’t date.”
“I don’t.”
“And I can’t date.” His finger trailed lower, over my neck and exposed collarbone.
“You can’t—” I gasped as his lips followed the path his fingers had made.
“So we just do this.” He rolled me into the mattress, hovering above me.
“This?” I breathed.
“Have fun.” He kissed me. “In between.”
“Fun. Yes.” Fun sounded good. Fun sounded nice. My eyelids fluttered as he rolled his hips into mine.
“No one needs to know.”
It would be awful if anyone found out. Embarrassing as hell. It would look like I had no self-control. “No one can know,” I agreed. Though John having me pinned underneath him wasn’t exactly a fair starting point for a negotiation.
“And when this competition is over—”
“No hard feelings.” I gasped as his hand slid under my shirt, covering my breast. “No... strings.”
“That’s right. Because while I’m still going to win—”
“You won’t.”
“While I’m still going to win,” he smirked, “not touching you would distract me too much. I need a clear head. Because if I have to sleep in the room next to you, but can’t touch you—” He slipped his hand between my legs. I rolled my neck back. “I will go absolutely feral, Nora.”
“Say it again.”
“What?” His breath was warm on my lips.
“My name.”
He leaned down, whispering in my ear.
“Nora.”