The feedback this time was lighter. Mostly comments about my main character. There was something I still hadn’t quite cracked. Something emotional. Something missing.
When I finally opened my door to head down for dinner—determined to show up for every meal, every workshop, every conversation—I flinched when John’s door opened at the exact same time. We both paused. A blink too long. For a second, I could’ve sworn I saw something shift in his expression—his eyes flicking to my mouth, pupils darkening just slightly—but then it was gone.
I remember you, Nora.
The echo of his voice in my memory sent goosebumps racing across my spine. I shook my head, trying to physically scatter the thought.
He tilted his head slightly. “Hungry?”
“Famished,” I said, breezing past him—or trying to. But he moved beside me, walking down the narrow hallway in perfect sync.
Our shoulders brushed. Just barely.
And then his scent hit me. Pine and leather. Crisp cologne. His shirt still held the faint starch of fresh laundry. Clean and masculine.
It brought me back to another scent entirely—what he’d smelled like half-asleep in bed. The way our bodies had tangled in the white sheets. Sweat, skin, my scent on him.
I nearly tripped on the first step down.
His hand brushed mine as if to steady me. Just a graze of his thumb across the back of my hand. Casual. Barely noticeable.
But my body noticed. Every single inch of it.
I spent the rest of dinner sitting at the very far end of the table away from John Kater.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I hate vodka. In any configuration.
There was no demon portal to be found in Lew Elliott’s cottage.
These walls are too thin.
“John, you seem distracted.”
Charlene’s voice cut through the warm hush of the room, her tone light but curious. I looked up just in time to catch John’s gaze flicking from me to her. He ran a hand over his face and murmured an apology.
It was late afternoon on day two. The living room glowed gold, washed in light from the tall windows. The fire crackled quietly in the corner. We’d veered from social media strategies to publishing timelines and marketing talk. I had no idea when it happened—I’d checked out somewhere around “cross-platform engagement.” My own notebook was a mix of scattered bullet points and absentminded sketches.
In the top left corner of my page, May sat cross-legged on the rug, hugging a book like it held the secrets of the universe,still wearing mittens for reasons known only to her. Jeremy was perched neatly in a leather chair, back straight, rainbow socks peeking out from under his crisply cuffed slacks. John was at the center of the page. Of course he was. One leg crossed over the other, the eraser of his pencil pressed thoughtfully to his lips. I hadn’t even tried to capture his eyes. Didn’t trust myself not to get stuck in the details.
Despite my best efforts to channel full teacher’s pet energy, talk of contracts and tour dates made my stomach twist. Instead of riding the wave of what felt suspiciously like an anxiety attack, I let my thoughts drift.
To Otis and his dress rehearsal on Friday.
To Mom, who expected another staged “couple’s” picture.
To the store and the flickering, possibly-possessed computer I’d left in Otis’s care.
To John.
The problem with having touched someone like him—havingknownthem at their most unguarded—is that your body remembers.Youremember. No matter how much you pretend otherwise.
I knew the taste of his skin. The way he sounded when he came apart. The exact way his pupils dilated when he watched me do the same. It was a terrible thing to know, when you also knew it couldn’t happen again.
My skin felt too tight. I was relieved when the group disbanded and I could retreat upstairs, putting literal walls—and a spare chair under the door handle—between us.
I was barely back at my desk, when my phone buzzed.
