Page 23 of Ready or Not (The Nape #I)
FIVE MONTHS LATER
“Desss,” I giggled. “I gotta gooooo. They’re waiting for me.”
Laid up in Desiderio’s bed with his head nestled on my bare stomach, he hummed a low, lazy protest. His fingers traced absent-minded patterns along my rib cage as though he were drawing constellations only he could see.
His breath warmed my skin, and for a moment, I forgot about the world waiting beyond his bedroom door.
“They can wait,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. “You’re not going anywhere… not yet.”
I laughed softly, threading my fingers through his curls.
Some days were always like this—with him—this dangerous pull that made time irrelevant and responsibilities feel distant.
But I couldn’t afford to let him win today.
Not this time.
Having just returned from a DJ gig in London three days ago, I assured my best friends that I’d join them for our monthly adulthood brunch recap. Naomi had an important announcement to make, and knowing her? It was bound to be something dramatic.
Besides, I couldn't skip it, especially after avoiding them for the last seventy-two hours, holed up in his apartment like we were both lovesick fugitives.
“I can’t,” I insisted, half-heartedly. My resolve was crumbling quicker than sugar in warm tea. “I haven’t seen the girls in two weeks.”
“And you haven’t seen me in what? Close to a month now, thanks to work?” he tilted his head to look up at me, pouting. “You owe me some time, too.”
“I know, but…”
He pulled the covers over his head and muttered something incoherent.
“Des,” I said again, firmer this time, though my resolve wavered as his lips brushed just below my belly button. “Seriously, I have to go. I promise I’ll be back.”
He groaned, threw the covers off his face, and rolled onto his back, throwing an arm across his eyes in exaggerated defeat. “You’re cruel, you know that? You’re heartless, mami.”
I propped myself up on an elbow, peering down at him. The sight of him naked in his bed, all dazed curls and that maddening pout—he was almost about to make me reconsider brunch entirely. Almost.
“Heartless?” I repeated, tracing a finger along the edge of his jawline. “You’re the one trying to kidnap me.”
He dropped his arm and tilted his head toward me, dark eyes glinting like he was plotting something mischievous. “Is it kidnapping if I don’t want my girlfriend to leave?”
Girlfriend.
Still getting used to the sound of that word.
Though it’d been four months since he made a grand gesture to ask me to be official—roses, candles, a playlist of all my favorite songs, and cake that asked the big question—it still made my stomach flip every time he said it.
Girlfriend.
It felt foreign and thrilling all at once, like I’d stumbled into a shiny new reality we were building together.
I rolled my eyes, but my cheeks betrayed me with the faintest warmth. “That’s not how it works.”
“Pretty sure it is,” he countered, pulling me down by the wrist until our faces were inches apart.
His grin was wicked, as if he knew exactly how torn I was.
He let the silence hang there, his breath brushing against my lips, daring me to close the space between us.
My resolve wavered again, my willpower slipping like water through clenched fists.
It was unfair, really, how easily he unraveled me with a single look, a single touch.
“You’re impossible,” I whispered, though there was no venom in the words. They were soft, amused, dangerously close to surrender.
“And you love it,” he said, that grin only widening. He kissed me quickly—soft and brief—before pulling back just enough to watch my reaction. His gaze roamed over my face like he was committing every detail to memory and taking his sweet time with it.
I groaned and flopped back onto the mattress in mock defeat, staring up at the ceiling as if it might have answers to my predicament. “You’re really making this hard.”
“That’s the point,” he teased, rolling onto his side to prop himself up on one elbow.
His curls fell across his forehead in a way that made him look effortlessly perfect in the kind of way people shouldn’t be when they’d just rolled out of bed.
“What kind of man would I be if I let you leave without a fight?”
“A decent one?” I offered, glancing sideways at him.
“Nah,” he drawled, leaning closer until his face hovered just above mine. “Ain’t no fun in being decent.”
He bent closer, his lips ghosting over the curve of my cheek, stopping just shy of my ear.
His voice dropped, smooth and low. “…and you don’t date decent men, Butterfingers.
You date me,” he finished with a grin that I could hear in his voice as much as I could see in my mind’s eye when I closed them.
I rolled my eyes again, though my body betrayed me by leaning slightly into him.
“Fine,” I stuck my tongue out at him, reaching for my phone to text Naomi and the girls that I’ll be late. “Ten more minutes.”
He grinned. “Ten minutes, huh? Bet.”
Before I could protest—or clarify that my ten-minute allowance didn’t mean ‘open season’ on my self-control—he moved. Quick as a cat, he shifted his weight over mine, pinning me beneath him. His hands braced on either side of my head as he looked down at me, his curls dangling like soft shadows.
“I’ll make those ten minutes worth it,” he whispered, leaning down until his lips left mine.
Yeah… I never stood a chance.
“Okay, noooow I gotta go,” I said as I slipped on my light blue jeans, shimmying them up my hips while he lounged back against the headboard, watching me with a self-satisfied smirk.
He looked infuriatingly pleased with himself, all stretched out like a lazy orange cat who’d just demolished a third meal that wasn't even his to begin with.
“Now?” he crossed his arms, smirking. “You sure you don’t need another ten minutes?”
“I’m sure,” I grabbed my folded turtleneck from the seat and tugged it over my head. Catching his eyes lingering, I stuck my tongue out at him playfully, and he let out a low chuckle.
“Suit yourself,” he said, stretching his arms above his head, the sheet slipping down to reveal more of that golden skin. “Buuuut you gonna be thinking about me all through brunch.”
“I think I’ll survive,” I quipped back, knowing it was a lie, slipping into my leather puffer coat.
“Brave words, Butterfingers,” he mused, reaching for his drawer on the bedside table. “Let’s see how long they hold up.”
I grabbed my bag from where it hung on his bedroom chair and slung it over my shoulder. He didn’t look up, but I could feel his attention on me like a simmering heat. As much as I loved the way he watched me, it was dangerous—it made leaving harder than it needed to be.
As I reached the bedroom door, his voice stopped me.
“You forgot something.”
I turned, scanning the room. “What?”
He slipped into a pair of white Yankees sweats lying on the ground and padded towards me, a hand behind his back. Ready to ask what he was hiding, he pulled his hand forward, revealing a small box.
My breath caught, and I blinked at the box in his hand—small, square, and wrapped in glossy black paper with a gold ribbon tied neatly around it. The sight of it silenced whatever smart-ass reply had been forming on my tongue.
“What…” I managed to croak, my voice barely above a whisper. “Des… what is that?”
He didn’t answer right away. He just shrugged one shoulder.
“Des…”
“Open it,” He held it out to me like it was both casual and sacred, and I hesitated for half a second before taking it. My fingers brushed his in the exchange, electricity sparking where our skin connected—he had that effect on me, even after all this time.
I turned the box over in my hands.
“What is this?” I asked again, quieter this time.
His arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the doorway, his face unreadable. “Open it.”
I untied the gold ribbon, the silky texture slipping through my fingers, and carefully peeled back the black wrapping paper. My heart thudded as I opened the small box, revealing a keycard and a silver key.
Did he just…
“It’s for here. Well…” he cleared his throat. “The keycards’s for the building, and the other one's to this place… to my place.”
Oh shit, he did.
I blinked at him, unsure if my heart was racing from excitement or sheer panic—or both in equal measure.
“I… a key?”
He took my hand into his. “I want to show you something else.”
Guiding me back into the room, we stopped in front of his dresser, a modest oak piece covered with his usual clutter—his designer watch, a half-empty bottle of cologne, a few forgotten coins.
“What are you?—”
He opened the second drawer down, and I gasped.
“I…” he rubbed the back of his neck. “I know it’s kinda soon, and the last time we talked about it was when we were joking around and all but… I-I made some room for you.”
Inside the drawer, half of it was completely empty.
The other half held a handful of my things—small, familiar items I hadn’t even realized I’d left behind.
A silk hair tie, a tube of my favorite lip gloss, and one of my favorite scarves from the night we had a wine picnic on his balcony.
My black Prince hoodie that I thought had disappeared two months ago was neatly folded.
My throat tightened at the sight, warmth pooling in my chest despite myself. He must have gathered them piece by piece, quietly storing them away without saying a thing while he waited... for what?
Me to notice?
The right moment?