Nolan walks up to a man standing by a sleek black car, looking mildly amused as Nolan hands off a few of the groceries and then turns to me.
“Your executive privilege is showing,” I say.
“You’re not wrong.” He smiles. “You need a lift?”
“I can walk.”
“You sure? It’s hot. And the bag are heavy.” He gestures to my groceries.
“They’re not heavy. I’m good,” I say, raising an arm, but he holds the bags out of reach.
“I’ll consider it cardio,” he says.
I let out a sigh, dramatic and mostly performative. “Fine.”
“I’ll text you,” he tells the man who nods at his instruction and opens the driver’s side door and gets in.
“Lead the way.” Nolan grins wider—full-blown satisfaction blooming across his face as he follows me down the block like this is some weird, meat-centric rom-com we accidentally wandered into.
We walk side by side, the hush between us buzzing with tension, like a fuse inching toward a flame.
The disappearing light filters through the leaves above, causing fractured shadows to dance across the pavement. Somewhere nearby, adelivery truck rattles by and a kid shouts from an open apartment window. I could pretend I’m focused on the street ahead, but the truth is—I’m hyper-aware of all things Nolan Rhodes right now.
The way his shoulder brushes mine whenever we drift too close. The way the paper bags crinkle faintly in his hands as he adjusts them. His spicy cedarwood scent cutting through the city air and messing with my resolve.
I sneak a glance as we cross the street. He’s relaxed, shoulders loose, no tension in his face, just an easy kind of calm, like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. Each step beside him tightens the thread between us. And I don’t know where it’s pulling me, only that I’m not fighting it.
We turn the corner near my building, and his gaze flits to me. I keep mine stubbornly forward.
The worn brick facade rises above us like it’s judging the bad idea swirling in my mind right now. Like, inviting Nolan Rhodes up for a drink.
“This your spot?” he asks, nodding toward the building.
“Yeah,” I say, slowing to a stop at my stoop. “Drop-off zone ends here.”
He doesn’t hand over the bags. Not immediately. Instead, his eyes trail from my face to the curve of my shoulder, as though he’s working something out in his head.
“You want to grab a drink?” he asks suddenly.
Caught off guard, I blink. “What? Why?”
He shrugs, casual as hell. “Figured the least I could do is buy you a drink.”
“Why?” I repeat.
“For hogging all the good cuts. And, you know... emotional restitution.”
I fold my arms, one brow arching. “Emotional restitution?”
“That steak looked important to you.”
“It was. I made eye contact with it.”
“And I’m prepared to make amends. Preferably with wine. And professional destruction,” he adds. “Don’t forget that part.”
My mouth opens. Closes. My brain cranks up the wattage on thebad ideasign in my head. But my pulse says:just fucking do it.
“There’s a place around the corner,” I hear myself say. “Decent wine. Cozy.”
