I opened my mouth, then shut it again. God how I wanted to invite him upstairs. I wanted to suggest tea, or a shower, or—heaven help me—even a second round. “Would you like to… ah… I mean… perhaps if you—”
He cut me off gently. “Easy, handsome. Let’s not rush.” His voice was warm but steady, and it grounded me instantly. “It’s been a big, dramatic day. We’ve shifted gears, yeah, but that doesn’t mean we need to put the accelerator to the floor.”
I swallowed. He was right, of course. He always seemed to be right in that infuriating, casual way. Although part of me suddenly questioned whether his interest was waning.
“Are you saying, you don’t want to come up?”
“Fuck no. I really, really,reallywould love nothing more. In fact, I don’t just wanna come up… I wanna come all over you.”
The sound that escaped me was an actual whimper.
“But there’s still a whole lot of our story yet to be told.”
I couldn’t have agreed more. “Kurt Vonnegut said every sentence in a story must do one of two things, reveal character or advance the action.” I paused. “Of course, Edgar Allan Poe said when in doubt, bury someone alive, so I’m not sure we can trust the advice of all storytellers.”
He chuckled. “Let’s reveal character and advance the action. We’ll give the grave-digging a miss, shall we? In the meantime, I should head back to the BnB. Benji and Bastian will be worried I drowned in a puddle or got eaten by a black bear. I better let them know I’m still in one piece.”
“That would be sensible,” I admitted.
He gave me that cheeky smile again, the one that seemed to see straight through every defense I thought I had. “But how about this? Tomorrow morning, I’ll swing by Pascal’s, grab us some brekky, and bring it here. You like croissants?”
“Of course,” I said too quickly, already picturing him turning up with a box of French pastries. “Yes. That… that would be nice.”
“Good,” he said, stepping a little closer.
Before I could overthink anything, he leaned in and kissed me.
It wasn’t the fevered, desperate kiss I’d planted on him in the middle of the storm.
It was something slower, softer, more deliberate.
When he finally pulled back, he whispered, “See you in the morning, Brooks Beresford.”
Then he stepped away, hands in his pockets, striding down the dusky street with that easy swagger of his.
The first thing I did when I got upstairs was draw a bath.
The storm had soaked me through to the marrow. I felt damp, sticky, and muddy. A bubble bath, I decided, would calm my racing heart and restore order. It always did.
The tub filled slowly, the old pipes groaning, the bubbles rising in a froth of white. I placed a folded towel on the rack within easy reach, set a candle on the sill, and chose a romance novel from the stack beside the bed.
I peeled off my clothes and stood naked beside the tub until it was almost full.
I turned off the running water, dipped one toe in, and almost melted on the inside. The temperature was perfect. I stepped in and gave a happy moan as I sank down into the bubbles. The heat seeped into me, untying knots I didn’t realize I had.
I opened the book and tried to read.
But every time my eyes moved across the words, all I saw was Cody.
Cody soaked in the post-storm golden light, chest bare, hair wild.
Cody laughing in the rafters of the mill.
Cody calling mehandsomelike it was a fact rather than an opinion.
Cody’s stiff cock inside his drenched shorts.
I sighed and set the book carefully aside on the little bookstand by the tub.
