Page 30 of How Freaking Romantic

It’s another minute before I take off his coat and lay it across the nearby armchair.

I peel off my sweatpants and shuffle to the en suite bathroom in just my sweatshirt, brushing my teeth with one of his spare toothbrushes like I’m on autopilot.

Then I’m in bed, his bed, staring up at the lights and shadows of the city dancing on the ceiling as if it can distract me from the fact that I’m surrounded by the smell of soap and cedar and him buried in these cool sheets, wrapped around my limbs.

My skin is buzzing, a low voltage throb just under the surface that makes every nerve ending too sensitive, too aware.

I kick off the sheets, flopping my body to one side, then the other. But I can’t get comfortable. I’m awake now, the effects of the alcohol completely burned away as my brain spins, trying to figure out just how we got here.

But that’s not really the question, is it?

Because I know deep down that it was inevitable from that first kiss.

We tried so hard to fight against gravity pulling us together that, like quicksand, it just swallowed us up more quickly.

The only thing we have to show for the battle is a friendship that only complicates this whole thing more.

And maybe that’s it. If we had met at a bar, I would have gone home with him.

I would have already been in this bed and found excuses to get out of it.

I wouldn’t have gotten to know him because I wouldn’t have had to, and that would have made it easier to let it go.

But instead, the struggle to keep those battle lines drawn, to ensure that we stayed on opposing sides of Josh and Jillian’s fight, only means that I left the rest of myself exposed, suited with the wrong armor so now I’m just naked, vulnerable and seen and completely out of my depth.

My mouth goes dry with the realization.

This is bad. Very bad.

I sit up, my skin hot despite the chill in the room. There’s no chance of sleep now, no possible way my body will relax.

I need a glass of water.

Of course, there are no glasses in the bathroom. I rifle under the sink, peek into the medicine cabinet. Nothing. I even try to fit my mouth underneath the tap, but it’s too shallow and I only succeed in getting the front of my hair wet.

Damn it. I’ll have to sneak out to the kitchen.

I make my way to the bedroom door but stop in front of it. How long have I been lying here trying to fall asleep? Twenty minutes? A half hour? He’s probably asleep by now, right? Or at least close enough that he won’t hear a pair of footsteps tiptoeing into the kitchen.

I listen at the door just to be sure. There’s only silence on the other side.

Still, I wait another long minute before opening it.

Then I carefully make my way down the hall, tugging at my oversized sweatshirt in an attempt to hide my underwear as my bare feet softly land on the hardwood floor.

The kitchen is open out to the living room, but even before I make it there, I see that the entire room is dark.

Slowly and so, so carefully, I inch into the kitchen and take a glass from the shelf above the sink. I fill it with water, then turn around, taking a sip and looking out into the dark living room.

That’s when I see a pair of eyes on me.

“HOLY FUCKING SHIT FUCK!” I scream, almost dropping my glass.

My vision adjusts enough to the darkness, and I immediately recognize that it’s Nathan. He’s sitting up on the sofa wearing just a pair of boxer briefs, and his bare chest is exposed, shadowed by his elbows that rest on his knees.

“You okay?” His voice is a low murmur from the other room.

I take a deep breath. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

I shoot him a biting look. “Besides sitting here in the dark like a serial killer?”

A moment, then he replies, “I couldn’t sleep.”

His expression is flat, his voice low and even, but there’s something in his eyes that stops the quip that’s about to leave my tongue. A raw and desperate edge that stills me.

“Me, either,” I admit, then lift the glass of water to my lips and take a deep sip.

When I bring it back down, he’s still watching me.

“You want some?” I offer.

“Yeah,” he says, raking a hand down his face. “Thanks.”

I turn back to the sink and fill the glass back up. My hand is shaking under the tap, and I can hear my pulse in my ears, a low and steady rumble as I turn the water off and walk out to the living room.

I stop in front of him, his legs planted wide just a foot or so ahead. He doesn’t say anything as he takes the glass and brings it to his mouth, and I stay quiet as I watch him down the contents, the bob of his throat as he swallows, the shape of his lips around the glass’s edge.

When he’s done, he places the glass on the side table without looking back up to me.

Silence swallows us up again. God, why is this so awkward?

“Listen,” I finally manage to say, but then stall when his eyes come back up to meet mine. I feel like he can see right through me, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking and feeling and God, I almost wish it were true so I wouldn’t have to find the words. “I’m sorry. For earlier.”

He lets out a haggard breath. “No, you shouldn’t—”

“Shut up and let me say this,” I cut him off. He stills, his whole body taut, and I have to take a deep breath before I can continue. “I don’t think you’re an asshole.”

Nothing in the room moves except my pulse, which can’t seem to keep up with my heart.

“I mean, I do think you’re an asshole, obviously. But not because I hate you or anything.” A nervous laugh laces through my words, but it fades quickly. “Of all the things I feel about you, hate is definitely not one of them.”

He’s watching me from under his brow, such an intense stare that I let my gaze drift to the wall behind him so I can breathe.

“I’m usually really good at this, you know. I’m the one who knows right from wrong. There’s no gray area for me. But with you…”

My voice fades, and I shrug.

He doesn’t offer me a reprieve, doesn’t fill the silence with any sort of encouragement or support. He just waits.

For the first time, doubt hits my chest, fear that I’ve really done it this time. I’ve tested his last nerve and he’s done with me. I realize at the same moment how much that would hurt.

And if this is it, if he’s really over this, over me , then fuck it. I have nothing else to lose.

“With you, I know what I feel but I can’t. I know what I want but I also know I shouldn’t.”

A moment passes. “So, what is it you want, Bea?”

“I want…” My tongue darts out to wet my lips, as if it will somehow buoy my courage. Then I say the simplest thing that comes to mind: “I want you to kiss me.”

His eyes narrow like this isn’t a good thing, and, oh God, I might have completely misread this situation.

“I mean, if you want to,” I continue hastily. “I’m not assuming you do, I’m just saying that I’m not opposed to it. To be honest, I was never really opposed to it, so don’t feel like you have to keep that promise or anything, because it’s not—”

I’m still rambling when his hands come up and slowly wrap around my calves. His palms are big and warm and any words that were on my lips completely dissolve.

“Where do you want me to kiss you?” he murmurs, his eyes still locked with mine as his thumb begins to move back and forth across my skin.

There’s a bite to his words, like there’s resentment there beneath an aching need. Like he holds it against me.

I know that feeling. The conflicted core of whatever it is we’re doing. But I also know that other feeling, the one I see reflected in his eyes as he looks up at me: that there is something greater than resentment or reason driving us off this precipice.

When I don’t answer, his hands begin to slowly skim up my bare legs, grazing the sensitive skin behind my knees as they travel up, stopping on my thighs.

“Here?” he asks.

When I don’t answer, he leans forward, brushing his lips against the skin above my knee.

It’s so slight, so soft, it could barely constitute a kiss, but I don’t have time to consider before his hands are moving again, up up up, beneath my sweatshirt, his thumb skimming the bottom edge of my underwear.

“Or here?”

Oh God . My eyes flutter shut as he leans forward again, his hot breath caressing my thigh just before his lips graze it.

My voice hitches as those hands continue up. His fingers gather up the hem of my sweatshirt so it cinches around my waist.

“Or…” He stills and there’s a long pause before he continues. “Are these days-of-the-week underwear?”

Ohmygod. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.

My cheeks are suddenly burning as I try to push him away, but he holds me in place, his grip tightening on my hips.

“It’s laundry day,” I hiss. “So don’t you fucking dare—”

My words evaporate as he tugs me toward him and kisses the faded letters that spell out Tuesday on the pink cotton. I feel his hot breath through the fabric and can’t help the sound I make, the hungry moan from deep in my throat.

That seems to sever the last bit of his restraint. His fingers spread around my hips and pull me down, their hard grip hauling me into his lap so I’m straddling him. His face is so close now, his lips grazing my own, his labored breath infused with mine.

“Or here,” he says.

I lean in to close the distance, but he pulls back, not far, but just enough that my lips miss their mark, hovering above his.

My brow furrows and he meets my confused expression with a dark gaze.

“You have to say it, Bea,” he murmurs.

My heart thunders in my chest as I roll my eyes. “Oh my God, just kiss me alre—”

The words are cut off as he bends forward, his mouth covering mine as our tongues slide together.