“Dehydrated, but okay. Haven’t been whiskey drunk in a while.” He grimaces and runs his fingers through his hair. Bedhead looks cute on him. His light brown hair is sexily mussed like he tried to tamp it down with water from the bathroom sink but lost the battle with some strands. His eyes are tired and a bit red. His jawline is as sharp as I remember from our first meeting but with a five o’clock shadow I’ve never noticed on him before. I curiously wonder how often he shaves to keep his face clean and fresh. His skincare routine is also something I’d like to know because even the morning after drinking, his skin is almost perfect.
“The food will help.” I remember the days of drinking too much and needing to carb or grease load the day after to feel human again. Just another reminder of how much younger he is than me. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a night like that. Well, not that long I suppose. A tequila-induced one-night stand also left me in the same predicament.
“Thanks for leaving out the ibuprofen. That was nice.” The ten-year age difference suddenly feels monumental as I consider the maturity scale. I went to the gala last night with Miller and came home immediately after to change into my pajamas and wind down in peace and quiet. Chase immediately went to a bar and got wasted before showing up on a woman’s doorstep. We’re in wildly different stages of our life. Not that I’m considering a life with him.
“How did you sleep?” Why is this so awkward? I talk to men all the freaking time every single day.Because none of those men have stripped you naked and feasted like it’s their last meal.That rogue train of thought catches me off guard again.
“Surprisingly well. This thing is pretty comfortable.” His forearms flex as he runs his hands over his thighs before he pats the seat beside him.
“It’s one of my best purchases. I’ve fallen asleep down here many times.”
“Bree.” Looking over, I watch in real time as he turns serious, clearing his throat and squaring his shoulders. “Gabrielle—” he corrects himself and I’m surprised I hate hearing my full name from his lips—" I’m really sorry for showing up how I did last night.”
“Why did you?” The urge to find out has me interrupting and blurting out the burning question. He could’ve gone anywhere, but why of all places did he come here?
He swipes a hand down his face, then rubs the back of his neck as he looks down at the rug.Is he embarrassed?
“Did you think we would hookup?” Jumping to conclusions never got me anywhere, but here I go again.
“No,” he responds quickly. “Maybe.” A sigh. “I don’t know.”
How am I supposed to respond to that? I should shut him down. There won’t be any repeats of what happened in St. John. It’s against the rules and it’s a bad look, for me especially. But instead, I stay silent and wait for him to say more. This time the silence doesn’t feel awkward. It feels heavy. Like he’s going to say something I may not like to hear. Something I’ll equally have no idea how to handle. I’m out of my depth with this man, and that may be the most concerning revelation of all during this conversation.
“I was jealous.”
“Come again?” His confession was so quiet I couldn’t have heard him correctly.Jealous?
“Seeing you with Miller at the gala. The way you were with each other. How his family knew you. It felt too intimate. Too real.”
“What are you saying?”
“You’re not my girl, Bree, but seeing you with another man, even if that man says you’re just friends? It had me seeing red. All night I watched you, and every time you leaned into him, hetouched you. When you embraced, it was a burning hot dagger to my skin. I couldn’t bear to watch it. So, I drank, and then when the tribute started and you leaned into each other, I couldn’t stand it anymore and I left, went to a bar, drank some more, and wondered if he was here. I showed up because of it. Didn’t want to go home without knowing if he was the one in your bed.”
“Why would that matter? I don’t understand.” I pride myself on not being dense, but in this moment, the words are not computing in my head.
“I couldn’t bear to watch it…” The intensity of his eye contact makes me squirm. It’s been a long time since someone has given me their full attention and focus like this. It’s unnerving and exhilarating at the same time. “Because I wanted it to be me. Touching you. Talking to you. Taking you home. It pissed me off that it wasn’t me.”
My mouth parts. Dumbstruck. Speechless. I blink in rapid succession and open my mouth to speak, but no words come.
Thankfully, I’m saved from responding when the doorbell rings.
“I’ll get it.” Bree jumps up too quickly and loses her footing, nearly tripping over the ottoman. I reach out to steady her with a hold on her elbow. Electricity spreads up my arm from the contact. Her eyes track the connection before flashing up to mine.
The tension in here is suffocating.
I can tell she’s fighting the attraction between us the same way I am. She may say she wants to keep things professional, but the way she’s been looking at me—and the way it just felt to touch her—there’s nothing professional about that. I’ve tried to respect her boundaries. Well, most of them. Showing up at her house in the middle of the night isn’t the best example of my commitment.
“Thank you,” she whispers. After greeting the delivery driver and accepting our bag of food, she hurries into the kitchen.
“Bree,” I say softly, coming up behind her. She startles like she didn’t hear me follow her.
“You can’t call me that.”
I brace my hands on the countertop in front of her. The smell of bagels and muffins compete with the light smell of her perfume.
“Why?” Stepping closer, my chest brushes against her back. Her arms break out in gooseflesh at the contact.
Tell me again you don’t feel this, Bree. Your body says otherwise.
