"It was just sex," she told her reflection, which had the audacity to look both wrecked and radiant. "Great sex, sure. With an infuriatingly sweet underwear mogul. Not a big deal."
Direct eye contact, competent tone. That's how you assert dominance over your own emotional free fall.
Sex didn't imply vulnerability. Sex didn't imply commitment or butterflies or the fact that her chest kept remembering the exact way he'd called her bruised, not broken. That line hadn't been sex. That'd been seeing her. Understanding her.
It'd been truth dipped in charm with a side of trust, and heaven help her—for five seconds last night, she'd believed him.
And that was a problem.
She scrubbed her face with cold water and finger-combed her hair. Then she pulled on her slacks, buttoned her shirt, and reattached the mental shields she'd learned to snap into place back during her parents' last divorce.
Heart locked. Exit plan secured.
Back in the bedroom, Zach was probably still out cold, one leg flung haphazardly toward the far side of the bed in carefree post-romp glory. Unreasonably attractive. Completely unconscious.
Her stomach growled a long, low protest that earned a whispered, "Even my metabolism is fucking conflicted."
And naturally, that was when Zach showed. "I can help with your metabolism problem."
Startled, Piper spun around and—yep. There he was, not asleep. No, he stood right freaking there. Arm on the doorjamb, his head tilted toward one muscular arm, lips curved in a sleepy, satisfied smile, deep-blue eyes still clouded from sleep but watching her like he was half a dream and half a memory and determined to become both.
"You're awake," she said, way too breezy.
"That's generally how talking works." He arched a brow. "Making a… what did you call it? Strategic exit?"
She shifted, clutching her shoes to her chest like they were a metaphor. "I've got a load of work."
He nodded slowly, not buying that version of the script for a second. "Is that really what you want to tell yourself?"
The words hung there, gentle but heavy.
She didn't answer.
Instead, she popped on her shoes, gripped the doorknob like it was her life raft, and tried to convince herself she wasn't cursed. Just un-caffeinated and confused.
Then she slipped out, pulled the door closed behind her, and left before she could do something ridiculous like climb back into that bed and stay.
Piper shoved open the apartment door with more enthusiasm than coordination, nearly stumbling over her own feet as she entered. Her keys clattered into the bowl by the door—okay, near the bowl—and she kicked it shut behind her with a little more force than strictly necessary.
She was still wearing last night's eyeliner, her phone was down to one percent, and her mouth tasted like she'd had to brush her teeth with her finger. Stellar choices, all around.
Shelby was already lounging on the couch in her usual throne-like sprawl, a vision of calm judgment wrapped in a plaid throw blanket.
"Shoes on in the house?" Shelby asked, lifting a steaming mug in her direction like it was holy communion. "Interesting."
Piper let her bag slide from her shoulder to the floor with a thud and collapsed onto the armchair like a disgraced minor royal.
"Don't start with me," she groaned. "I'm emotionally fragile and physically held together by the hope of coffee in my future."
Shelby raised an eyebrow but wordlessly extended the mug.
Piper reached for it like it was life itself. "I don't need commentary."
"I didn't say anything," Shelby said innocently. "Yet. But your hair says you did the thing. Your vibe says you caught feelings. Your whole aura is screaming mild existential crisis at me."
Piper groaned and sipped the coffee. "It was a one-time thing."
"Is that why you look like you're both ten minutes late for brunch and one epiphany away from a full-blown wedding planner breakthrough?"
