Page 29 of How Freaking Romantic

“I’m good,” I say, pretending like I’m looking around the room and not watching the span of his back as he reaches up and grabs some sheets and a blanket from the top shelf.

I pivot back to the window a little too quickly when he turns around. I can hear his footsteps, the heavy, even gait that eventually stops next to the sofa. There’s a rustling of fabric, and I look over my shoulder to see him unfurling a sheet across the cushions.

“So…” I say, but my voice trails off.

I want to continue with: This is the place that Jillian’s divorce bought .

But I don’t. I can’t. It feels unfair to lay that at his feet when I’ve been so willing to ignore it up until now.

If it came out it would only be to push him away, to reforge whatever flimsy boundaries I had been trying to keep up.

The role of enemies suddenly feels so forced, while nothing else with him ever has.

So instead, I just ask, “Why are you helping me?”

He tucks one corner of the sheet into the corner of the sofa and sighs. “Because as much as you may hate to hear it, you’re my friend.”

I don’t hate hearing it. In fact, my heart trips over itself with the words. I try to mask it, though, adding a bit of sarcasm to my voice as I tease, “Do you make out with all your friends?”

“No.” He throws a blanket on top of the sheet. “And we agreed not to do that again.”

“Doesn’t mean you haven’t thought about it.”

His expression becomes skeptical. “You haven’t?”

“Nope,” I lie.

The corner of his lip twitches. “Okay.”

I suddenly feel warm, every inch of my skin aware of his proximity. And whatever alcohol is left in my system gives me the courage to press him further.

“What have you thought about, exactly?” My tone is teasing and light, covering for the fact that I’m so hungry to know; that I’m struggling to maintain control of a situation that has me so wildly out of my depth.

His head falls slightly and his hands let go of the bedding to rest on the arm of the sofa. I can see the tension in his muscles, his arms and shoulders taut as he shakes his head and murmurs, “Don’t.”

My eyebrows knit together. “Don’t what?”

He looks up. His gaze is serious. “I heard you when you said you didn’t want anything to happen between us.

I saw how upset you were when I even mentioned it the other night.

So just…” He sighs and rakes a hand through his hair, frustration contorting his features as he seems to work to find the words.

“Don’t make it harder for me just because you can. ”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“Come on, Bea. You’re my friend and I—”

“You think I’m making this harder for you ?

” I interrupt. Irritation is suddenly bubbling in my chest, the perfect vessel to funnel everything hot happening inside my body.

“I didn’t force you to take Frank’s class.

I didn’t invite myself to meet Marcie or to have dinner afterward.

I’m not the one that came uptown tonight without being asked to. ”

“I know.” His expression softens as he puts his hands on his hips. “You’re right, and I’m sorry—”

“I’m not looking for an apology,” I reply, taking a step toward him before I can think better of it.

“I could have ignored you, or stepped down from my TA position, but I didn’t.

I’ll take responsibility for that. But don’t try to make me feel bad about it, like me standing in your apartment right now is all my fault. ”

“I’m not saying it’s your fault,” he says, his voice stern and demanding, like we’ve suddenly entered a courtroom. “I’m saying that you have the power here. You set the ground rules and I’m trying to follow them.”

My arms fly out at my sides. “When the hell did I set the ground rules?”

“Are you serious?” He takes a step toward me. There are mere inches between us now, but neither of us seems to notice. “You set them every time we talk. You’re always reminding me who we are to each other. Every day you make it clear where I stand with you. What you want.”

I’m buzzing with fury, not because he’s wrong but because he’s uncomfortably right. He hasn’t been privy to my private thoughts; he doesn’t know how much all of my words have been about so much more than pushing him away. It’s about self-preservation.

But I’m still in self-preservation mode, so I lash out in the only way I can.

“Oh really? Okay, what the hell do you want, Nate?”

His entire body stills as his gaze flicks to mine and stays there for a long moment.

Then I realize what prompted the reaction: I said his name.

Not Nathan. Nate. He had asked me to call him that ages ago and I never had, even when I knew he was becoming my friend.

I’d never given him that. Not until right now.

The air in the room shifts, suddenly heavy and electric. I want to take a breath, but my lungs refuse. His eyes are so intense that the anger burning in my chest bottoms out into something much more substantial.

He lets out a long breath and whispers, “Bea—”

A knock on the front door slices through the air and cuts him off.

His eyes stay locked with mine for another moment before he runs a hand down his face, then turns to walk down the short hallway.

A minute later, Tony appears with a brass luggage trolley carrying my bags.

He smiles and nods to me as he carefully puts the backpack on the dining table, then leaves the laundry bag on the ground beside it.

“Thanks, Tony,” Nathan says, offering a tight smile as he walks him back out.

I stand there listening to the unintelligible hum of their conversation for a minute or two before I hear the sound of the door closing, the lock sliding into place.

Nathan appears again, his hands in his pockets. That burning that had been in his eyes only a few minutes before is gone. I recognize the defenses he’s put back up, the internal armor that’s so similar to my own.

“It’s late. Let me show you the bedroom and you can get some sleep.”

I don’t know what to say, so I remain silent as I follow him through the living room, down another hallway to the bedroom.

It’s big, especially by New York standards.

By the window there’s an armchair and a haphazard pile of books next to it.

In the center of the room there’s a king-size bed that sits low to the ground in a modern wood frame.

It’s flanked by matching nightstands, the kind with thin wood legs that look like they were stolen from the set of Mad Men .

I turn to say as much, expecting to find him beside me, but he’s still standing in the doorway. He hasn’t stepped foot in the room.

“Bathroom is right through there,” he says, nodding to the door in the far corner. “I think I have some extra toothbrushes under the sink.”

“Thanks.” My voice sounds thin.

“Do you want me to bring your bags in here?”

I shake my head, wrapping my arms around my waist even as I lift my chin proudly. “No, it’s fine. I can just sleep in this.”

“Okay.” His gaze travels down my body before he finally turns. “Night, Bea.”

The door closes with a small click, and I find myself standing there staring at the pattern in its wood grain as I listen to his retreat down the hall. His steps are heavy and slow, growing fainter until the sound finally disappears all together.

And then it’s just silence.