But Nate knew himself.
Kissing Ella wouldn’t have been a period at the end of a sentence. It would have been an ellipsis. One kiss would have turned into tongue, which would have become him lying rigid at three in the morning, staring at her ceiling and wondering how he’d messed this up so badly.
His palm smacked into his forehead.
Of course. The exact moment he swore off sex, the universe leaned back in its chair, steepled its fingers, and said,Oh, this should be fun.Then it shoved a woman at him. Not just any woman, but the kind who could restart a man’s heart with a single glance. Who made him want to be better, not becauseshe demanded it, but because the idea of disappointing her felt unbearable.
And now she was making her move with the delicacy of a bulldozer.
Ella’s words echoed in his skull like a taunt:So, want to come up?
His pulse had gone absolutely feral, heart pinging in his chest like a pinball machine. Because yes, he’d wanted to go up. He’d wanted to peel that tank top off, map every inch of her with his mouth, and—nope. Donotfinish that thought.
Besides, his brain and his other head weren’t exactly on speaking terms. What if he made it all the way to her room only to discover his equipment was still out of service? His one attempt to verify functionality—that morning in the shower with shampoo doubling as lube—had yielded absolutely nada.
He kicked off his sandals and fell backward onto the bed, arms flung wide. Think of nothing. Nothing at all. Naturally, his brain supplied Ella. Her exact expression when he’d said,No thanks.The worst part? That look in her eyes. The flicker of hurt, as if she wasn’t enough.
He curled onto his side with a pathetic whimper. Be an adult. Call her. Explain. Except, explain what, exactly?Hey, Ella! Fun fact: I’ve slept with so many women my junk blew up, and I’m on a self-imposed sabbatical. That’s me. Total catch.
Yeah. No.
The smart move? Ghost her. Poof. Let her write him off as another emotionally stunted tourist, roll her eyes, and forget he ever existed. Because the alternative was way worse. The slow click of realization:Wait… you’re—and then the mental spiral:Oh my God, I told my sister about you.
Ghosting wasn’t cowardice. It was mercy.
Nate sat up and fished his phone out of his pocket. The screen cast a pale glow over his fingers as he pulled up Ella’s name. His thumb hovered overDelete Contact…
But refused to budge.
Because his foolish, sentimental brain chose that exact moment to sabotage him: Ella wiping out of her tube into the Rhône, surfacing soaked and breathless and laughing like joy was a renewable resource. The way she’d looked at him—not like he was a joke, or a fantasy, or a job—but enough. And later, stretched out on the grass, the brush of their pinkies. The jolt straight to his ribs, like his heart had been tapped directly.
His shoulders slumped.
Delete her? He couldn’t. Not when she was the best damn thing that had happened to him. He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, felt the rasp of stubble against his palm. “Okay,” he muttered to the empty room. “Okay. Fine.”
Here goes nothing. He opened the messaging app and typed.
Nate:Hey. Sorry things ended weirdly. I’ve had some stuff going on and didn’t handle it as smoothly as I should’ve. But I did have an amazing time, and I meant what I said about hanging out again. Maybe we could grab coffee?
He reread it, jaw tightening. Too earnest. Too boyfriendy. Like he was assuming there would be an again. Bold, considering she’d practically fled.
He added a safety net.
Nate:Also, you left some of your stuff in the dry bag.
There. Logistics. Plausible deniability. He stared at it, then winced and kept typing.
Nate:But totally cool if you’re busy or whatever.
Jesus Christ. He sounded like a golden retriever who’d been kicked and was bracing for a follow-up. Before he could overthink himself into deleting the entire conversation, he dropped the phone onto the sheet.
And waited.
No bubbles. No typing indicator. Just the silent, indifferent glow of the screen. He refreshed the app. Once. Twice.
Nothing.
“Cool,” he said, flopping onto his back. A train thundered past outside, rattling the window and the walls and his already frayed nerves. Somewhere out there, people were leaving, arriving, living. And here he was, a man who’d spent years dodging feelings, now immobilized by one unread message, waiting like a lovesick teenager.
