“Weirdo. Get a grip.”
I tugged on the thick wool socks he’d given me, slipped into a pair of boxer shorts, and braced myself.
Then I opened the bathroom door.
Everything in here was earthy and muted.
Concrete and walnut finishes. Hanging plants. Stacks of paper and warm, glowing light suspended from industrial lamps. Mid-century furniture cut sleek lines through the room, centered by a thick circular rug. A stack of vinyls waited beside a record player. It was warm but elegant, effortless but expensive. Refined.
I trailed my fingers over a polished dresser, scanning the wall-to-wall bookshelf—neatly arranged, thoughtfully curated. It reminded me of Lew Elliott’s place. But less stuffy. Less performative.
John stepped into view.
He froze for half a second when he saw me. He tensed—barely—but I noticed. Then he moved again, setting two mugs down on the coffee table. He even used coasters for fuck’s sake.
Then he sat. Watching me. Watching him.
My shoulders inched higher. This washisterritory. I was inhisclothes. Inhishome.
And when his pupils dilated, I felt completely exposed. No idea where any of this was going. Would he call Charlene? Tell me to stay out of his business? Send me packing with a polite smile looking down from his moral high ground?
Then he brushed his thumb along his lip. “Beautiful.”
“What?” My voice was quieter than I meant it to be. My mouth dry. My nerves sharp. For a moment, it felt like we were back in Lew’s cottage. Like the world had stuttered, rerouted.
He nodded toward my legs. “Your tattoos.”
“Oh.” I tried not to be flattered. “I know.”
That made him laugh.
“Why don’t you have any?” I asked.
I remembered the muscle of his forearms, the smooth expanse of skin along his collarbone. Unmarked. Strong. I couldn’t quite picture him with ink. It didn’t fit the tabloid persona.
He shrugged, gesturing to the spot beside him on the sofa. “My PR team doesn’t think it fits the brand. And my father would probably disown me.”
I sat down, sinking into the soft leather beside him. “If I did what people expected of me, I’d be engaged and making wedding albums.”
He handed me a blanket, which I draped over my legs. Softer than the cashmere I wore. Even though I was fully covered, his eyes lingered—on my legs, then up, over the shirt, to the faint scar blooming on my stomach. The rose vines visible above the collar.
His gaze left a trail of pinpricks in its wake.
“Right,” he said, voice low. “But…sometimes the consequences of doing what we want are too much to take.”
Were we still talking about tattoos?
A silence settled, thick and charged. Then, finally, he sucked in a sharp breath.
“So,” he said, handing me a cup, “what had you swimming in my backyard?”
“People say it’s one of the best views in Chicago.” I sipped. The tea warmed my chest, calmed the last of my shivers.
“Just a surprise visit, then?”
“You weren’t supposed to be here,” I said before I could stop myself.
“So you followed us?”
