I needed something to cool me down. I tiptoed to the kitchen. The fancy fridge—the kind with the built-in ice dispenser—wascalling my name. The place was dark and quiet. Jeremy and May were gone, their mugs rinsed and drying on the rack.
I didn’t bother with a glass of cold water. I just opened the fridge and stuck my entire head inside, gulping down the cold air and willing it to give my brain frostbite, killing off any John related thoughts in the process.
I had no idea how long I stood there, just letting my pulse settle, my cheeks cool.
Then—
“I can assure you there are no demons in the fridge.”
I jolted, cracking my head on the door. Of course it washim.Of course he would quoteGhostbusters,one of my all time favorite movies.
Clutching my forehead and scrambling for a plausible explanation as to why I was half-inside a kitchen appliance, I turned to face him. And noticed—he looked a little flushed too.
“Just getting some…” I blindly reached beside me and held up a bottle.
“Vodka?” His brow lifted, amused.
I squinted at the label. Well, shit. “Yep. Felt like the right time for a drink.”
He stood in the doorway, wearing black track pants and a fitted T-shirt. His arms crossed over his chest. The motion pulled the fabric tight across his torso.
All I could think was:Those are the same arms that pinned me to a door.
Bad Nora. Bad Nora.
He cocked his head. “Did you just call yourself bad?”
I bit my lip. “No,” I said, letting out the fakest laugh known to man. “Just…want one?”
I held up the bottle, cursing myself internally. And I wanted to slap that one curl dangling over his forehead for having the audacity to make him look so soft.
“Sure.”
My heart skipped. It was pitch black outside. I was alone with John—for the first time since I’d literally fled his bed like the grown, emotionally stable woman I was.
I turned away to hide the tremble in my hands, grabbing two glasses and pouring a careful two fingers of clear liquid into each.
This was a bad idea. This was a bad idea. This was a bad idea.
He probably thought I was inviting him to some kind of midnight seduction.
He took the armchair by the fireplace. His gaze flicked to my shirt—the same one I’d worn when we first sat across from each other here in this very room. Except this time, I wasn’t wearing socks. This time, my bare legs stretched out, and I was fairly sure the shirt had shrunk in the last wash.
I masked my nerves with a half-hearted swagger, handed him his glass, and caught the moment his eyes flicked to my thighs as I sank onto the couch.
He took a slow sip, eyes never leaving me. “So how have you?—”
“Two truths and a lie,” I blurted out, desperate to move my blood back into my brain.
He smirked, setting his glass down and resting his arms on his knees. “Okay. You start.”
I downed half my vodka, coughed a little at the burn, and fixed my gaze anywhere but on his face.
“I prefer vodka over whiskey,” I said, setting my glass next to his. “I have a secret drawer in my store. No one knows what’s in it. Not even Otis.”
Then, carefully: “I’d do anything to win this competition.”
I looked at him then, hoping he saw the truth in my eyes. Because I would. I would do anything to save my dad’s store.
