Page 125

Not yet.

Now, we’re in Nick’s living room, curled up on his giant couch that smells faintly like cedar, aftershave… and him.

I’m wearing one of his T-shirts, the cotton soft, clinging to the curve of my hips every time I shift.

He’s in a pair of gray athletic shorts, chest bare, hair still messy from sleep and sex, lips curved in that lazy smirk that melts my insides.

We just finished eating—Thai food, because apparently our to-go in times of crisis is pad see ew and dumplings—and now we’re sitting with our phones in our laps like two people about to open Pandora’s box.

He’s got one arm around me, fingers tracing idle, teasing circles on my thigh. My legs are tucked under me, my cheek resting on his shoulder.

My screen lights up, and I can see dozens of messages, calls, headlines in bold.

I let out a soft groan, nuzzling into his neck.

“Ready to see the chaos we created last night?”

He chuckles—low and deep, the sound sending warmth all through me.

“I have a better idea, baby. Want to give me two minutes?” he asks, already unblocking his phone and ignoring every single notification he has.

Before I can ask what he’s up to, he stands, winks at me, and walks toward the kitchen island, casual and confident like he owns the world—and maybe he does. Maybe he’s always been my whole damn world.

I watch him, completely entranced, unable to believe this is real. That we’re really here. That I have him again. All of him.

I know I’ve said it before, but God—he’s the most beautiful, unfairly sexy, infuriatingly magnetic man who’s ever walked this earth. Every step he takes, every glance he throws me, every smirk—it all hits me like a thunderstorm in my chest.

I must’ve been too lost in the wild maze of my thoughts and fantasies, because I don’t even notice when he comes back and slides down beside me onto the couch like he never left.

With that playful glint in his green eyes and a magnetic smirk pulling at his lips, he leans in and whispers, “Done.”

I blink at him, confused. “Done with what?”

But just then, my phone buzzes in my lap.

A notification.

From Instagram.

Nickolas Hardy added three new photos.

Still blinking, I glance back at him, eyebrows raised.

“I’m sorry, weren’t we still in the ‘you’ve blocked me on everything’ stage? How am I even getting this notification?”

He grins, impossibly smug, and reaches out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering.

“I took care of that last night,” he says gently, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “I know it was childish to block you. I was angry and hurt, and I didn’t want to see or hear anything connected to you.”

His voice softens further, eyes locked on mine.

“But while you were asleep on my chest, looking like peace itself, I unblocked you. Everywhere. And I added you back.”

He shifts on the couch, leaning against the backrest, then pulls me gently with him, setting me with my back against his chest, his legs bracketing mine. His hands wrap around my middle like they never want to let go.

“Oh, and I may have taken advantage of the fact that you didn’t change you passcode,” he adds, lips grazing my ear, teeth teasing the shell of it.

I gasp, turning my head to look at him, half laughing. “You didn’t.”