Page 32 of How Freaking Romantic

Sleep yields slowly as Rupert Holmes sings about pina coladas from my phone somewhere nearby.

I’m suddenly aware of the morning sun trying to sneak between my eyelids, and I want to turn away from it, steal a few more minutes to dream, but my body won’t listen.

It’s restrained by a heavy weight across my back, an arm that tightens as I begin to stir.

I lift my head and open one eye. I’m greeted with a broad chest dusted with brown hair.

Nathan .

The night comes back to me in an instant. The bar, the argument, the sex.

Ohmygod, the sex.

For weeks I had been so careful, worked so hard to keep everything I felt for him at bay.

And then all he had to do was look up at me with those eyes and I was done.

All my efforts were forgotten in the hours that followed, and I hadn’t even cared, because even in the frenzy of it, I knew it would be over in the morning. And now morning was here too soon.

I hadn’t expected the soft rock about getting caught in the rain, though.

I push my hair away from my face and look around the room for the source of my alarm. We’re still on the sofa. My sweatshirt is on the ground, and Nathan’s clothes, which had been folded so neatly beside him before, are now strewn across the coffee table.

My gaze finally finds my phone peeking out from under his shirt, just far enough to be out of reach. I try to shift slowly, move my shoulders to the edge of the cushions so I can get to it, but his body stirs at the same time.

He lifts his head and does a quick survey of the room, the floor, our clothes, then brings his gaze to where I’m still sprawled across his chest. I can see the night falling into place for him, too; the instant it all comes back to him.

“Morning,” he says, his voice gravelly with sleep. A warm smile starts to tug at his lips. I’m barely aware that I’m mirroring it, only that relief flows through me and my body relaxes a bit. His smile is magic.

But before I can say anything, before I can even attempt it, consciousness fully arrives and I slap my hand over my mouth.

Ohmygod . My breath.

His eyebrows pinch together. “What?”

I shake my head and add a shrug as if that will somehow make me look relaxed, even though I’m obviously panicking, moving quickly to stand up and get away from him.

It’s only when I’m on my feet that I realize I’m naked, and there’s no distracting from my horror as I desperately reach down for my sweatshirt.

“Bea.” He says it slowly, his arms coming out as if he’s trying to calm a rabid puppy. But it’s no use; I’m frantically pulling the sweatshirt on as I walk backward, hitting the wall before turning around and rushing down the hall into the bedroom, then the bathroom.

I slam the door shut behind me and the sound echoes through the apartment, but I don’t care. I’m clawing at the countertop for my toothbrush and the toothpaste.

The water is running, and my mouth is full of minty foam when I hear his knock outside the door.

“Bea.”

I freeze.

“Open the door,” he says, his voice deep enough to rattle the door. “Please.”

I furiously brush, trying to finish as quickly as possible as he continues.

“Listen, I’m sorry,” he says through the wood, “if you’re regretting it or if you’re embarrassed but…” He sighs, and there’s a thud like he’s let his head fall against the door. “Talk to me. Don’t shut me out and bolt, like that was just some—”

I suddenly realize how this looks: refusing to talk to him, running from the room, hiding in the bathroom.

Fuckfuckfuck.

I throw the door open without thinking about it, the toothbrush in my hand and foam still lining my lips.

“I dow weewat at,” I say around a mouthful of toothpaste.

His expression skews with confusion. “What?”

I roll my eyes and hold up a finger—the universal sign to wait—and turn to the sink. I spit into the drain, then turn to face Nathan again.

“I don’t regret it. I just…” I squeeze my eyes closed before I continue. “I have really bad morning breath, so I needed to brush my teeth.”

Silence for a long moment. I open my eyes a crack and see him still staring down at me, his brow furrowed.

“Oh.” A moment passes. Nathan’s gaze slides off my face to the countertop behind me. “Should I…” He nods to the sink, and I turn to see his toothbrush there waiting.

I turn back to him, my eyes a bit wider. “Okay.”

We stand there for another moment before he moves forward, sidestepping where I’m blocking the doorway, and heads to the sink. I begin brushing again, watching him out of the corner of my eye as he squeezes toothpaste on his brush and begins to do the same.

We watch each other in the mirror as we brush and brush and brush; it’s the only sound filling the small room. After I finally rinse, I lean against the countertop and wait until he’s spit out his mouthwash.

“I really didn’t want to make this awkward, and I think I just failed spectacularly,” I say.

His lips quirk up in a smile. “Bea, I think it stopped being awkward the minute I woke up and found out you have ‘the Pina Colada Song’ as your alarm.”

I nod. “Right.”

He turns to face me fully. I’m working hard to look relaxed, but my bottom lip is trapped between my teeth, and he’s watching it like he knows what that means, as if he’s aware that this is a tell. Then he reaches up and wipes a bit of toothpaste from the corner of my mouth with his thumb.

“We need to talk about this,” I say.

“What do you want to talk about?”

“Oh, I don’t know, the fact that I just had sex with my co-worker who also happens to be the opposing counsel in my friend’s divorce?”

“And?”

“And?” I repeat, incredulous. “This has to violate some professional ethics or something, right?”

“I don’t think there’s a rule against it.”

“But that doesn’t make it okay. I mean, you work for Josh and I know Josh and… there’s issues, and we haven’t even touched on the fact that we work together and you know my boss and…”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “What’s the concern here?”

I take a deep breath. “Just because there’s not a clear-cut rule doesn’t mean it’s right. It might not be a professional violation, but I’m willing to bet you’re not going to tell Frank about this, right? Or Josh?”

He only stares at me.

“Exactly,” I say. “And I can’t tell Jillian. Because I know it would hurt her. I know this is wrong the same way you do.”

His brow becomes a hard line across his face. “I never said this was wrong.”

“Then what is it? What are we doing here? Are you seriously saying that this is fine? That we should pretend this is going somewhere even when we both know it can’t?”

The words hurt even as they pour out of my mouth. But I know it’s true as much as he does, even if right now I have a hard time thinking it could be anything other than something substantial. Something real.

But that was last night. It’s morning now, and reality requires our attention.

Nathan moves forward, closing the space between us and planting a hand on the counter on either side of my hips. “Then what do you want, Bea?”

His expression is hard, almost angry. And I get it. This feeling, it’s completely foreign and terrifying and I feel just as frustrated as he does. We both fought ourselves into the middle of this maze, and now that we’re here, we have no idea how to get back out unscathed.

“I don’t know,” I say.

He stares at me for a moment longer, his gaze sliding to my lips. “Then what about just this?”

“Just what?”

“Here. This weekend.”

I let out a breathy laugh. “Nate—”

“Stay here. With me. We give this thing until Monday. Let it run its course.”

“And then what?”

“And then it’s done. That’s it.”

My smile fades as I study him, searching the depths of his blue eyes for a tell, something that gives away an ulterior motive. He remains still for the survey, as if he knows I won’t find anything.

“Okay. What are the terms?” I finally say.

“Is this a negotiation?”

“Yes.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “All right. Both parties agree to stay here until Monday morning, though either party can leave at any point if they deem it necessary. Neither party will have any obligation to continue the aforementioned relationship after the termination date.”

I roll my eyes. “How romantic.”

He offers a lazy shrug. “I hear romance is a social construct anyway.”

Laughter bubbles up from me, but it fades just as quickly. Then I’m staring at him again, biting my bottom lip. He sees it and something flares in his eyes, as if he’s just realized that I’m considering this.

“Come on, Bea,” he says, leaning forward so his face is just inches away from mine. “Give me the weekend.”

We’re so close that I can see the flecks of color in his eyes again, how the blue is streaked with deep shades of gray.

“Okay,” I say. My voice is so low it’s almost inaudible.

“Okay?” he repeats.

I nod once. “Until Monday morning.”

He kisses me before I can say anything else, add caveats or excuses or even think better of the entire stupid plan.

Because it is stupid, I think as his hands slip under my sweatshirt to my hips, fingers sinking into my skin as he lifts me up and sets me on the countertop.

So ridiculously and demonstrably stupid, but right now I don’t care, not about how this will work or how it will end, only that he’s mine. For right now, he’s mine.