Page 15 of Until the Storm Breaks (The Midnight Men #1)

“Yeah,” I say quietly, my voice thick. “That’s exactly it. That’s what I meant, I just... couldn’t see it.”

She shrugs, but she’s smiling slightly. “Just how I read it. Maybe I got it wrong.”

“No. You got it right. More right than I did.”

God, I want to hear what she thinks about everything. Want to see the world through her eyes.

I find myself stepping closer without meaning to, drawn like gravity, then catch myself and stop. The space between us feels charged and dangerous, like touching her might rewrite everything I thought I knew about myself.

We walk in silence for a moment, the rain softening to a drizzle around us. I’m still processing what she said, how she took my darkest thoughts and found light in them.

“Why did you help tonight?” she asks suddenly, breaking the quiet. “At the bar. We’re not exactly... friends.”

The question catches me off guard. “You needed help.”

“That’s not really an answer.” She kicks a small rock, sends it skittering into a puddle. “You could have just ordered your beer and left. Watched me drown in cosmopolitan orders.”

“Maybe I have a weakness for lost causes.”

“My bar is not a lost cause.” Her voice rises in mock indignation, hand pressed dramatically to her chest.

“I meant the cosmopolitans,” I say. “Overrated drink. All that cranberry juice.”

“You take that back.” She nudges me with her elbow. “Cosmos are iconic.”

“Only because of Sex and the City, not because they deserve to be.”

“Big Carrie Bradshaw fan, are you?” She’s grinning now, and I want to keep her smiling forever.

“I am, actually. Binged the whole show twice in college. The writing’s genuinely sharp, especially Miranda’s storylines. Then I tried my first cosmopolitan thinking I’d been wrong about them too.”

She stops walking to stare at me. “You’re serious. Calvin Midnight watches Sex and the City.”

“Dead serious. Even wrote a paper on it for a screenwriting class.” I glance over at her, grinning at her expression. “Still hate cosmopolitans though.”

She shakes her head, laughing. “You’re full of surprises.” Then she grows serious again. “Really though. Why did you help at the bar?”

I consider how to answer. “My mother would have haunted me if I’d left you to handle that alone. She had very strong opinions about helping neighbors.”

“I can handle a busy night,” she says. “I’ve done it before.”

“Oh, I had no doubt that you could handle it. But I couldn’t just sit there watching you get slammed.

” I pause, remembering our first meeting when I got back into town.

“I know I was a dick when I arrived, but I’m not actually heartless enough to drink beer while you’re drowning in cocktail orders. ”

“Ah. Ghost prevention and chivalry. Very practical.”

“The most practical.”

She’s quiet for a beat. “I wasn’t exactly welcoming either. I think I might have been a bit harsh, if I recall.” She glances up at me.

I grin. “A bit? I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of your full wrath.”

“Listen,” she says. “I have a defensive streak. You came in like Mr. Hyde and tonight you were practically Dr. Jekyll behind that bar.”

“Ouch.” But I’m smiling. “Well, I contain multitudes, I guess.”

She laughs at that. “Quoting Whitman now?”

“Would you prefer more Elias Shaw?”

“If I start requesting poetry quotes on demand, I’ll sound like a pretentious English major.” She grins. “You might make fun of me.”

“That would be hypocritical, considering I actually was a pretentious English major.”

“Was?” she smirks.

“Am. Definitely still am.”

Her phone buzzes. She pulls it out, looking down at the screen. “Lark. She’s demanding details about you playing bartender.” She types something quick. “She says thanks, by the way. For covering so she didn’t have to work injured.”

“Tell her to ice that ankle.”

“Already did. Three times. Four now.” She pockets her phone. “She’s terrible at taking care of herself. Thinks she’s invincible.”

“Most people are terrible at self-care.”

She glances at me sideways, rain dripping from her chin. “Speaking from experience?”

“Speaking from observation.” And experience. Definitely experience.

We dodge a particularly deep puddle, and she nearly slips. I catch her elbow automatically to steady her. Her ponytail has shifted completely to one side, half falling out of its elastic, wet strands curling against her cheek, and it’s devastatingly attractive.

We keep walking, and I’m trying not to stare at the way raindrops are sliding down her throat, disappearing into her collar. Trying not to think about following that path with my mouth. Damn, I need to get it together.

“You know,” she says, “Lark’s is the fifth text I’ve gotten asking about you bartending tonight.”

“Five?”

“Lori texted. Twice. Someone named Carol who I don’t even know. And one of my wine suppliers who wasn’t even there but heard about it.” She shakes her head. “You’re even more of a small-town celebrity now.”

“Great. Exactly what I was going for.”

“I mean it,” she says. “There was a line on your side of the bar.” She laughs wickedly.

“They were just being practical. I was closer to the vodka.”

“Right. The vodka.” There’s amusement in her voice. “Nothing to do with the whole brooding professor thing you have going on.”

“I don’t brood.”

“You were literally on your porch for an hour yesterday afternoon. Just sitting there. Staring at the water.”

My pulse kicks up, knowing she’s been aware of me the same way I’ve been aware of her. “I was thinking.”

“Brooding,” she counters.

“Contemplating.”

She shakes her head, sending water droplets flying. “Brooding with a thesaurus.”

I can’t help but laugh at that. “That’s actually the title of my future autobiography.” I catch her eye, hold it. “So, do you just keep an eye on me all the time?”

She opens her mouth, closes it. I can just make out a flush in her cheeks, and something about catching her flustered ruins me a little.

“Don’t be ridiculous. We live practically on top of each other.

I just... noticed when you came out. And then noticed you were still there when I was cleaning up later. ”

“So you noticed me,” I say. “Twice.”

“You’re hard to miss. Very uh…tall.” She gestures up and down as if presenting me as Exhibit A in the case against normal proportions.

“Fair enough,” I concede.

She stops walking. “Wait. Did you just admit to brooding?”

“I admitted to nothing.”

“You absolutely did.” She gestures to the empty street, smiling. “The rain heard you.”

“The rain is a terrible witness. Very unreliable.”

She laughs, and I realize I’m memorizing her without permission, storing up these moments like I’m going to need them to survive when I’m back in Seattle and she’s just someone I see every few years when I come back to visit.

We walk in comfortable silence for a bit.

The rain has lightened to a soft patter, more mist than drops now, and I can see our cabins up ahead, the porch lights glowing golden through the haze.

My steps slow without conscious thought.

I don’t want this to end. I want more of this easy back-and-forth, more of her laugh, her observations.

I want to hear every thought she has about everything.

The greed of it surprises me, this sudden fierce need to steal all her time, keep her out here in the rain talking until dawn.

We’ve reached the space between our cabin doors. The porch light casts everything in warm amber. She turns to face me, and we’re closer than I realized.

“Thanks,” she says. “For tonight.”

“You already thanked me.”

“Right.” She laughs, but it comes out breathy. “I do that. Over-thank people.”

She’s looking up at me, and I can’t read her expression. Grateful maybe? Or something else? The rain has made her skin glow in the porch light, and I have to force myself not to stare at the way her wet shirt clings to every curve.

“Well,” she says. “Goodnight then.”

But she doesn’t move toward her door. Just stands there, biting her bottom lip, looking at me like she’s waiting for something. Or maybe that’s just what I want to see.

I should say goodnight. Go inside. Not stand here imagining peeling those wet clothes off her. “Maren,” I hear myself say.

“Yeah?”

I don’t know what I was going to say. Her name just came out, pulled by something I can’t control around her. She tilts her head slightly, waiting, and a drop of rain slides down her throat. I track it without meaning to, and when I look back up, she’s watching me watch her.

Fuck it. I step closer. Close enough to feel the heat coming off her despite the rain. Close enough to see her chest rise with a sharp inhale. She doesn’t move back. The porch light catches the rain on her lips and all I can think about is how badly I want to taste her.

“Calvin...”

The space between us shrinks.

Then, without warning, she jerks back, almost tripping.

“Uh, goodnight,” she says, voice strangled, and disappears inside.

I stand there in the rain for another moment, body wound tight. What the hell just happened? Was I about to do something stupid, and she saved us both by leaving? Or did she want it too?

Inside my cabin, I strip off my wet clothes. Through the wall, the bathroom door clicks shut. The shower starts.

I freeze, one hand on my belt. She’s in there, naked, water running over her. My cock throbs painfully, already aching from outside.

I throw my wet clothes in the laundry hamper, trying not to think about what’s happening on the other side of that wall. The shower runs forever. Or maybe it just feels that way when every drop of water makes me picture her hands sliding over her skin.

When she finally finishes, I wait until her door closes before heading to the bathroom. The air is thick with steam and her scent—vanilla and something sweet that makes me want to follow her into her room and bury my face in her neck.

Cold shower. Ice cold. I stand under it with my palms flat against the tile, counting backwards from one hundred until I can think past the need coursing through me.

I can hear her through the wall. A soft thud like she’s thrown herself on her bed. Then silence.

I stare at the ceiling, still hard, still frustrated. That moment outside keeps playing on repeat: her moving into me, then pulling back. Through the wall, her bed creaks as she shifts. I wonder if she’s thinking about it too. Or if she’s already forgotten, moved on.

I adjust myself in my boxers, grimacing at how worked up I am over an almost-touch. This is ridiculous. I’m thirty-five, not seventeen. Tomorrow I need to focus on the house. All the practical shit that actually matters. Not obsessing over my neighbor.

But I can’t forget the way she said my name out there. Soft and breathless. I’m fucking desperate to hear her scream it. To find out what she tastes like, what makes her lose control, how many times I can make her come.

I’m aching for release. I grip myself, stroke once while imagining her mouth on my cock, then force myself to let go. I’m trying to be a gentleman here, or at least something resembling one. She pulled away. That means something.

So I lie there instead, uncomfortable and awake, trying not to think about what would have happened if she hadn’t stepped back. Trying not to imagine her mouth, her hands, the sounds she might make.

Fuck. This is going to be a long night.