“How about we just have breakfast and take it from there?”
His suggestion warms the icy chill in my chest, the simplicity of it more tempting than anything. It tugs at that careful bubble we shared last night at the bar, the easy compartment where it’s just the two of us chasing the high of being together in the moment and letting all the other noise fade. For now.
Comforted by his offer to take things one minuscule step at a time, I nod and he turns back to the stove, pouring the yellow liquid into the now hot pan. It sizzles and he turns a spatula inslow circles. Ignoring the way the pure domesticity of it sends my heart racing, I grip my coffee cup tighter, my knuckles turning white.You can do this. It’s just breakfast. Normal people eat breakfast.
“But I want to be honest with you, Lottie.”
His sudden continuance of the conversation snaps my attention back like a cut rubber band.
“While I don’t want last night to be the end, I don’t know what I want to be next,” he admits, his back still turned. “Or really, what I am allowed to expect. This is sort of a . . .” His voice trails off.
“A mess?”
He shoots me a smile over his shoulder. “Yes. Quite the mess.”
I’m not sure I believe his saying he doesn’t know what’s next. Just last night he told me that’s the reason his last relationship failed. But at the same time, this might be new territory for him too. In the same way I don’t get to know my dates further than first names and bedroom kinks, maybe he doesn’t tease the idea of casual sex.
When he turns around again, his face is more serious. “Do you regret it?”
“No.”
The answer slips out quickly and to the point. It’s true—I don’t regret sleeping with him. It was everything I love about a good hook-up, better even. Was it stupid to sleep with my boss? Maybe. But do I regret sleeping with Noah? No.
“Good,” he says, the smile returning. “I don’t either. Though I should apologize for blatantly breaking our rules.”
“It was a mutual undoing,” I quip, the easy banter easier to stomach than the deep wells of uncertainty we’ve been dancing around. “Besides, our rules were mostly to keep me fromlosing . . .” I trail off realizing I have in fact lost the bet and slam my hand down on the counter. “Shit!”
Noah spins around, his eyes searching me for further signs of distress. “What happened?”
“I lost the fucking bet!”
Annoyed it’s escaped my thinking until now, I drop my face into my hands. Kara is going to beinsufferable.
His eyebrow quirks. “You bet we would sleep together?”
“No. I bet we wouldn’t. Kara is going to lose it. She is the worst when she wins. One time she beat me at a game of Uno and I swear to god, she gloated for a month.Dammit.”
Noah’s face is a wash of amusement as he watches me spiral through the five stages of grief. Maybe I don’t need to tell Kara. God dammit, why did I let myself fail like this? It was in my hands. Surely she won’t expect me to actually pay. She’ll be too caught up in the romance of it all, right? Fuck it. I’m going to be saddled with the entirety of our rent next month as well as Kara’s insufferableI told you sotaunts.
“Tell me,” Noah says, spinning back to the stove. “What did you sacrifice in the name of an impassioned night of incredible sex?”
Hearing him describe it as incredible does help quell the sting of my loss, but I pout my lip out and balance my chin in my palms. “I have to pay her half of the rent next month.”
He laughs and turns with the skillet of eggs and dishes some of them on my plate. “I suppose I’m technically to blame, so I feel it my gentlemanly duty to offer to pay some of it. If you want.”
This pulls my frown deeper. “I thought we learned our lesson about throwing pity money around after the dress fiasco. Besides, I’m fairly confident that’s considered prostitution, and while Flourishmightbe able to get over our dalliance, I don’t think they’ll take kindly to a charge like that.”
He adds two slices of bacon to my plate and then rounds on the countertop before slipping into the seat at my side. Turning, his knees brush my thigh and all thoughts of Kara and our bet melt away. His voice is low and tender as he speaks.
“How about we set some new rules?”
“Because those worked out so well the last time.”
“I propose,” he says, ignoring my jab and spreading my napkin on my thigh with a flick of his wrist, “that we keep this between us. At the very least until we know what we want from whatever this is.”
Usually, when a man offers to keep things quiet, it’s a half assed attempt at covering up his own fetishes. Guys don’t like to admit they like fat girls, or the practically homeless girl with blue hair and both mommyanddaddy issues. But Noah offering to keep this between the two of us reminds me of the way his hand felt on my back at his parent’s house: protective, edging on possessive. I sense he doesn’t want to hide me so much as he wants to shield me from the way this could hurt me. The sharp edge of uncertainty dulls under his proposal.
“She’s not the only one who might benefit from hearing about this,” I say, thinking of the office and the sneers I’m sure to endure if they found out.
