My phone buzzes.
Theo:How’s it going? You guys stopped for the night yet?
Cara:One room. One bed.
Theo:
Lucas:The trope success rate just went up to 97%.
Cara:I hate you both.
Theo:No you don’t. You love us.
Lucas:Let us know how it goes.
I turn off my phone and stare at the ceiling.
The shower is still running. I can hear Nate moving around in there, the spray of water against tile. I try very hard not to think about him in there, wet and naked and separated from me by one thin door.
I fail completely.
By the time he emerges—hair damp, wearing a t-shirt and sweats that shouldn’t look as good as they do—I’ve changed into my own sleep clothes and claimed the left side of the bed.
“I’m going to read for a bit,” I say, holding up my phone. “If you want to sleep, I can turn off the light.”
“It’s fine.” He stands there for a moment, like he’s not sure what to do with himself. Then, very carefully, he walks around to the other side of the bed and sits down on the edge.
The mattress dips under his weight. He’s so close I could reach out and touch him.
I don’t.
“Goodnight, Cara,” he says quietly.
“Goodnight, Nate.”
He lies down, keeping as far to his edge as possible without falling off. I turn off the lamp and settle back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling in the dark.
His breathing evens out after a few minutes. Slow and steady, the rhythm of sleep.
But his scent... his scent is everywhere. Pine and woodsmoke, warmer now than it’s been in weeks. Less controlled. Like being in this room, in this bed, has lowered his defenses whether he wants it to or not.
I close my eyes and breathe him in.
Tomorrow, we’ll get to LA. We’ll pack up my apartment, get Mr. Darcy, and drive back to Honeyridge Falls. Back to Theo and Lucas. Back to the life I’m building.
But tonight, I’m lying next to Nate Thorn for the first time in ten years.
And despite everything—despite the awkwardness and the tension and the walls he keeps throwing up between us—I fall asleep smiling.
Chapter 18
Nate
Iwake up to honey and citrus.
It takes me a moment to place where I am. Unfamiliar ceiling. Thin motel curtains letting in gray morning light. And warmth—so much warmth—pressed against my side.
Cara.
