I smirk faintly. “You’ll survive.”
Levi’s the first to nod, reluctantly. “Alright. We wait. But if she reaches out?—”
“Then we take it from there,” I finish.
They both seem to settle at that, the edge of restless energy in the room easing slightly. Beau leans back against the couch cushions, crossing his ankles. Levi checks his watch, then stands, smoothing the front of his jacket.
“Gotta get to work,” he says.
Beau grabs his coffee, standing too. “Guess I’ll head out. Call me if you hear from her.”
I walk them to the door, leaning against the frame as they step out into the hallway. My coffee’s still warm in my hand.
When the door shuts behind them, the apartment feels too quiet.
I set the cup down, rub the back of my neck, and try not to think about how much of what I just said was for their benefit—and how much was me trying to convince myself.
Because the truth is, every instinct I have is telling me to get in my car and drive to her place.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Beau
I’ve jerkedoff into her panties so many times this past week that the lace is starting to fray at the seams. And that’s saying something—I don’t usually keep trophies like that.
But these aren’t just panties. They’re hers.
The last tangible thing that smells like her, like that three-day blur where I didn’t think about work, or food, or anything except how many times I could make her come before she passed out in my arms.
It’s been a week since. A whole damn week of wanting her but keeping my distance. Just like Simon said we should.
She hasn’t texted the group chat once. Believe me, I check the thing daily. Not in some casual way, either—I check it like a man waiting for a call that might never come.
So seeing her here, on a random Thursday morning, is like being blindsided.
The bell over the bakery door had barely chimed before I caught her scent—lighter now, post-heat, but still distinctly her.
My head snapped up from the pastry case, and there she was, standing by the counter with Norah at her side. Laughing. Head tipped back, eyes bright, utterly unaware that she’s just punched a hole through my ribcage and set my chest on fire.
And then my gaze drops lower, and that fire turns molten.
She’s in my Henley, the dark charcoal one I wear on cold mornings, the one that fits close through the shoulders but loosens over my stomach. The same shirt we walked in and found covered in her come.
My shirt.Only she’s gone and made ithers.
She’s rolled the sleeves up twice, pushing them to her elbows. Half-tucked the hem into a short, flared skirt that shows the soft line of her thighs when she shifts her weight.
Gold hoops in her ears, hair loose around her shoulders, cowboy boots with a bit of heel. She’s styled it so she looks like she stepped straight out of a glossy magazine spread, and fuck me, it works.
The thought of her in it—of her pulling it on over bare skin, no bra, no panties, just the heat of her body trapped in my shirt—makes my cock throb instantly.
“Your coffee’s ready.”
The voice cuts through my haze. I blink and turn, and there’s Cora, sliding a paper cup across the counter.
“Right,” I mutter, grabbing it, but my eyes flick back to the window before I can stop myself.
Cora follows my line of sight. Her soft giggle tells me I’ve been caught. “Ohhh. That’s why you turned me down on the dancing last night.”
