I’d done this before. One-night stands. I knew the drill.
A polite smile. A vague “let’s text.” A fake number.
Sometimes just:Sorry, I’m not the dating kind.
So why did I feel so completely off-script now?
I washed my face in ice cold water and decided it must’ve been the lack of coffee. That was the only explanation.
As the machine sputtered to life and the black furball jumped onto the counter, I realized what felt so terribly off:
I didn’t have the urge to run.
And that terrified me more than sleeping with my competition.
More than one of Mom’s cryptic midnight calls.
More than the thought of losing the shop if I couldn’t pay the rent in time.
The coffee trembled in my hands. I placed the cups on the counter, watching in a daze as some of the brew sloshed over and trickled down John’s spotless kitchen counter.
I could go back in. Hand him his coffee. Laugh it off. Blame it on the alcohol, on the movies, on… whatever. Just another bad decision in a sea of them.
But no. I did what every stable, mature, self-respecting woman does after a one-night stand.
I made a run for it.
Shoes on. Bag in hand. Quiet as a mouse. I was halfway to the door, daylight haloing the porthole—freedom just steps away—when:
“Nora.”
Shit.
I froze just outside the bedroom door I hadn’t bothered to close. Why didn’t I close it?
I turned, trying for casual. “Oh, hey.”
Like we were old acquaintances and not like competitors who made each other come last night.
He leaned against the doorframe, shirtless, hair a mess, voice gravelly with sleep. “You’re panicking, aren’t you?”
I made a snort-laugh-choke noise. “No, like, totally not, uh…”
God, why did his morning face have to be even hotter than his regular face? His eyelids were half-lowered, lips still swollen, like he’d just stepped out of a very wet dream.
“Well. Bye, then,” I said too quickly, heart galloping like I’d stolen something. I had to leave before I did something truly humiliating, likeask to stay.
“I’ll see you at the cabin,” he said.
I promptly tripped over the doorframe.
“Smooth exit,” John muttered, amused.
I flipped him off without looking back, unsure if he saw it, and practicallylaunchedmyself through the front door.
As I stepped into the sharp slap of Chicago’s winter air, I made myself a solemn, binding promise:
Never. Ever. Let this happen again.
