“That you came back so quickly.” I hesitate. “But yeah, that you came back at all. I half-expected you to disappear. Check out of your hotel. Leave without saying goodbye.”
“Why did you think that?”
I rub my lips together while I think it over. “I was afraid.”
She flinches and adjusts herself on her elbow to look at me. “Of what?”
I shrug. “I dunno. That maybe you got what you wanted from me. I am your target, aren’t I?”
Her eyes widen. “Target?”
“You know. The subject. You’re writing about me as a journalist and maybe this signified that you got all you needed from me. It wouldn’t be the first time, you know, that someone got close and then backed off once they could brag to their friends about it.”
She stares at me for a moment, her expression troubled, then gives her head a shake. “You think I’m doing this to brag to my friends? Nate, I don’t have friends.”
Now I’m giving her the same look. “No friends? How is that possible?”
She looks away. “It’s just hard in this line of work. And I guess I’m a workaholic. It’s mostly my fault.” She glances back at me. “I’m not going to just up and leave. I still have an article to write.”
“And then you’ll leave when you’re done.”
She blinks and gives me a soft smile. “Not if I don’t want to. Not if I can find a reason to stay.”
I swallow thickly. Her words give me some assurance, enough to keep the demons at bay. The feeling of being used is a hard one to get over, and the idea that none of this means anything would kill me.
“You know, you make it very hard to be smart about this,” she whispers.
“Good.” I kiss her softly. “Smart is overrated.”
We stay like that, breathing each other’s air, until her stomach growls loudly enough to break the moment.
I laugh. “Hungry?”
“Starving,” she says, cradling her belly.
I sit up, pulling her with me. “Come on. I’m making you breakfast.”
“You mean you can make more than grilled cheese?”
“I can manage eggs. Toast. And don’t forget the coffee.”
“A man of many talents.”
I find my sweatpants, and she pulls on my shirt from yesterday—the sight of her in my clothes does things to my brain—and we make our way to the kitchen.
She perches on a barstool while I gather ingredients, and I’m struck again by how natural and right this feels, like we’ve been doing this for years instead of hours.
Keep her, the darkness whispers.Whatever it takes.
For once, I don’t argue.
“Scrambled or fried?” I ask, cracking eggs into a bowl.
“Scrambled.”
“Good choice.”
I cook while she watches, occasionally stealing sips of her coffee or reaching over to touch my arm, small intimacies that might not seem like much but somehow mean everything.
