When I finally walk outside, the moon is high in the sky. It's late. Or maybe early, depending on how you look at it.
And I'm still reeling.
I'm an idiot.
That's the bottom line.
I'm a fucking idiot, because Paige is right. I made a choice tonight.
And I'm not sure if it was the right one.
Chapter Thirteen
Paige
I wake up feeling like I didn’t sleep at all. My body is heavy, my head aching in that dull, foggy way that comes from tossing and turning for hours. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him. Heard his voice. Heard my own voice, clipped and cold, trying to hold myself together when I felt anything but.
The ceiling above my bed is pale with early morning light, and I stare at it like maybe if I stay still enough, the memory of last night will blur into something less sharp. But it doesn’t. It’s all there—his hands, his mouth, the way it felt so good I forgot to breathe. The way my chest lit up when he looked at me like he wanted me.
And then the way it all burned down in mere seconds.
It was a mistake.
I roll onto my side, clutching the blanket like it might hold me together. It’s not like I didn’t know it would be complicated. Ben Hoffman isn’t just anyone— he’s Jason’s best friend. He’s my landlord. He’s… Ben. But hearing the words come out of his mouth, sharp and panicked, felt like getting punched.
Especially since he’d been inside me only minutes before.
I told him it didn’t matter. That we’d pretend it never happened. But lying here now, my chest aches in a way I hate. Because it does matter. And pretending is a hell of a lot harder when every nerve in my body still remembers exactly what it was like.
I drag myself out of bed and shuffle to the kitchen, the floor cold under my bare feet. The coffee maker gurgles to life, and I stand there watching it, arms wrapped tight around myself. I’ve got a mountain of work waiting at the bakery, but I’m not sure how I’m supposed to step into that space today. Not when there’s a chance I can smell his soap in the air, the smell of what we did there last night.
I take my first sip of coffee and make myself a silent promise: today, I work. I focus. I paint until my arms are sore, I keep my head down. And if Ben Hoffman decides to darken my doorway, I’ll smile like nothing happened.
Because maybe, if I pretend hard enough, I can turn that lie into truth.
The brush drags smoothly over the wall, the blue sinking in rich and even, and I focus on that—on the soft hiss of bristles, the faint smell of paint, the steady rhythm of my hand. Not on the fact that Ben is twenty feet away, probably moving around behind the bar. Not on the memory of his hands, his mouth, his cock, or the way my pulse jumped every time I heard the front door of the brewery earlier.
The bell above my own door jingles, and I almost drop the brush.
Jason steps inside, his expression already pinched. He’s got his hands shoved in his hoodie pocket, shoulders tight. “What the hell’s up with Ben?”
I keep my gaze on the wall. “You’d have to be more specific,” I say, my tone short.
“I was just next door grabbing a pint, and he’s being a total snarly ass. Barely said two words, kept scowling at everyone like they’d personally offended him. What’s his deal?”
I dip the brush into the tray, careful not to splash. “Maybe he’s just tired. You know how crazy weekends are there.”
Jason snorts. “Yeah, but this is different. He’s acting… I don’t know. Weird.”
I shrug, moving the brush in long, deliberate strokes. “Maybe ask him.”
“I tried. He just said he’s fine, which is clearly bullshit.” Jason leans against the counter, watching me like he’s waiting for me to confirm something. “Did you guys have some kind of argument? He gets like this when something’s bugging him.”
“No,” I snap. “We didn’t have an argument. We’re fine. He said he’s fine, so let it go.”
Jason blinks at me, eyebrows lifting like I just barked at him. “Okay. Touchy.”
I set the brush down in the tray and straighten, wiping my hands on the rag tucked into my back pocket. “I’m just trying to paint, Jase. I don’t know what you want me to say.”
