Page 30 of Omega's Formula
“How chivalrous.”
“I’m trying to make this as painless as possible. For both of us.” I meet his eyes again, forcing my voice to remain steady. “This isn’t what either of us wanted. But it’s what we have to do. So we’ll do it, and we’ll get through it, and then—”
“And then what?” His voice is quiet now. “We wait out the year and go our separate ways? Pretend none of this ever happened?”
“That’s the plan.”
He studies me for a long moment. I can’t read his expression—there’s something complicated happening behind those green eyes, something I don’t understand.
“Fine,” he says finally. “Move in. Take the couch. Play house for the Bureau.” He steps back, putting distance between us. “But don’t think this changes anything between us. We’re just... tolerating each other until we can walk away.”
“Agreed.”
“I have to get back to work.”
“I’ll be there tomorrow, around noon.”
He nods once, sharply, then he’s gone, disappearing back behind the counter, and I’m left standing in the middle of the coffee shop with my heart racing and his scent still wrapped around me like a vice.
I walk out into the afternoon sun, taking deep breaths of clean air, trying to clear my head.
Tomorrow. I’m moving in with Nolan West tomorrow.
I should dread it. I should be planning how to minimize contact, how to maintain professional distance, how to survive the next weeks without strangling him or kissing him or both.
Instead, something warm unfurls in my chest. Something that feels dangerously like anticipation.
He’s been living in my space for weeks now. Sleeping in my bed. Surrounded by my history, my belongings, my scent. And tonight, I’ll be there too.
I tell myself it’s just biology. Just the prime match chemistry that neither of us can control. It doesn’t mean anything.
But as I drive back to the penthouse to pack a bag, I can’t stop thinking about the way his voice had broken when he’d said I can’t sleep without...
Without what, Nolan?
I intend to find out.
9. Nolan
The shower water is scalding. I know because my skin has flushed an angry pink across my shoulders, but I can’t bring myself to turn the dial. The heat feels deserved somehow—punishment for every filthy dream that’s kept me awake since that wedding kiss.
Erik Nilsson is moving in today.
I press my forehead against the cool tiles and let the spray hammer the back of my neck. Three weeks I’ve lived in this apartment, and it still doesn’t feel like mine. It never will. Not when I keep finding traces of him everywhere.
I let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. My husband. I’m married to Erik Nilsson.
Sara’s message came through at six this morning, yanking me from a dream I’d rather forget—one where Erik’s hands were doing things that made me wake up hard and furious at my own body’s betrayal.
Cohabitation arrangement approved. Press release temporarily on hold. Bureau compliance requirements attached.
The compliance requirements are ridiculous: daily check-ins through their app. Joint selfies on demand, GPS-verified. Random overnight pings between ten and six to prove we’re in the same location.
I can picture it now. The two of us standing stiffly in this cramped hallway, phones at arm’s length, fitting our faces into the frame while carefully not touching. The Bureau will compile a lovely collection documenting our mutual contempt. Maybe they’ll make a calendar.
I rinse my hair and turn off the water, standing in the steam for a moment. I’ve grown comfortable here these past weeks—walking around in boxers, eating cereal over the sink, sprawling across the entire bed that still smells faintly of him despite fresh sheet and despite the scent blocker I have been spraying everywhere. My peace ends today.
I grab my towel and wrap it around my waist. My clothes are in the bedroom because I wasn’t expecting company until noon. Sara’s message said Erik would arrive then to settle in before the first official check-in tonight.