When I wake up at God-knows-what-time, the first thing I notice is that I’m groggy and disoriented. My studio apartment has west-facing windows, so the bright sun warming up my face as I stir awake is a clear indication that I’ve either slept for fifteen hours or this is not my bed.
I bury my face in the pillow, trying to get away from the blinding light, and a masculine smell I’ve become very familiar with in the past few weeks hits me all at once.
Yep, last night wasn’t actually a nightmare.
I groan my frustrations into the comfortable cloud beneath me as the events of the previous night come crashing down on me.
Seeing my father for the first time in seventeen years. Telling James about my turbulent childhood. Learning about his own troubled past. Almost telling him about her.
Hell.
I’m well aware our conversation isn’t over. I left things unsaid, things I want him to know about, but…but I can’t. The words won’t come out, and it leaves a frustrating sensation in the pit of my stomach that makes me want to break something.
Plus, on top of everything that is making my anxiety levels rise like a tidal wave, I need to tell my brother about my father. Pete coming back and stalking me isn’t something I can keep from him.
My father said we weren’t done talking, that he won’t let me get away this time. Whatever he meant by that, it can’t be good.
I don’t think he’ll harm me, but I haven’t seen him in more than a decade—and it’s not like he was the greatest person in the world when I did know him.
I don’t know my father, and I don’t know what he’s capable of. Telling Sammy isn’t an option—it’s a must.
But I can’t do it right now. Not when the memories are still so very recent, not when—
My stomach growls.
Exactly. Not while I’m hungry.
I decide to eat something for breakfast—I’ll just say goodbye to James and grab something on my way home—and then I’ll call Sammy, when my stomach is full and my head is in the right place. Or at least in a better one.
With a groan, I rub my eyes with the heels of my palms and draw the heavy covers back. Last night, after he told me about his football injury, we stayed up for a bit longer talking about happier memories—my late dog Rocket and James’s childhood with his friends in the city. My eyes got droopy sooner than I would’ve liked, the shock finally wearing off, and we decided to call it a night.
I was so exhausted last night, I only took in the white covers of his guest bed, but now, in the sun, I can see all the details. The floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out on the busy streets of Norcastle and the river only a few blocks away. The queen-sized bed, white and pristine, that feels like a cloud. The lack of family pictures.
There’s also a built-in closet and two black nightstands that, paired with the dark paintings on the walls and the charcoal gray rug at my feet, give a very masculine air to this room. All the apartment feels like that—neutral, manly, somber, and kind of impersonal. But not cold. Not soulless.
And it brings me comfort to know within this apartment is one of the few people I feel one-hundred-percent safe with.
I tug at the long sleeves of his hoodie as I exit the bedroom, suddenly self-conscious about wearing his clothes. The apartment is quiet, and when I reach the living room, only Shadow and Mist are here, bathing in the sunlight.
Luckily, I only stand in the middle of his living room like a total idiot for a couple of minutes until the front door opens and James walks in, wearing training shoes, athletic shorts, and his shirt in his hand.
His shirt is in his goddamn hand.
No matter how many times I blink, the image of a shirtless and sweaty James doesn’t go away.
Am I still dreaming?
“Maddie,” he breathes out, as if he’d forgotten I was here at all. That would explain his partial nudity. “You’re awake.”
I clear my throat and try to make my voice sound lighter than I feel inside. “Your bed is comfortable, so that was a struggle.” Sure, Maddie, talk about sleeping in his bed. That’ll make things better. “Where were you?” I ask, quickly changing topics.
“I went to the gym. It’s on the building, downstairs.” Wow. Talk about living in the lap of luxury. “Do you mind if I jump in the shower really quick? I’m dripping sweat.”
Like I haven’t noticed.
“Not at all.” I smile easily. I’m not dying inside or anything. “Have you had breakfast yet? I can fix us something quick or run to the nearest café.”
His grin catches me off guard. I’m not sure I can survive a playful and half-naked James. I might combust.
“I’ve had breakfast,” he says. “Four hours ago.”
My eyes almost come out of their sockets. “What do you mean? What time is it?”
“Lunchtime.”
Oh, God. “Did I really sleep for that long?” I ask, confused. It truly felt like I went to bed, blinked, and woke up. “I’m sorry, I should leave. It’s the weekend, and I’m sure you have plans.”
“Yes, I’ve got plans,” he confirms, making my stomach drop for some dumb reason. “Making sure you eat a proper meal after the long night you’ve had.”
Wait.
What?
“We can order in, or I can make us something. I think I’ve got some pasta and shrimp in there. Let me check.”
“You don’t have to do this, James,” I’m quick to say. The last thing I want is to be a burden to him, too, all because I had a mental breakdown last night. I don’t want him to feel like he has to take care of me now. “You don’t have to go all doctor on me. I promise I’ll eat. I can even text you pictures of my food if you want.”
But he’s already disappearing down the hall. “Good try, but you’re staying. Have a look at my pantry and fridge and see what you like.” He stops right outside his bedroom door, his hand on the handle, and turns his head. “Unless you want to leave.”
Do I want to leave? No. Not at all.
Being around James is easy, and I feel like I can be myself and he won’t judge me for it. Plus, it may not be a great idea to be left alone with my thoughts right now. If he says I’m welcome to stay, maybe I shouldn’t look for a hidden meaning in his words for once.
So, I shake my head and try not to give away how fast my heart is beating right now. “I’d love to stay.”
With a satisfied nod, he disappears into his bedroom. As I gather all the ingredients for a shrimp pasta recipe, I try my hardest not to think about those defined muscles under the steaming hot water of his shower.
I fail.
✽✽✽
“What do you mean you don’t rinse your pasta?” This is the most atrocious thing I’ve ever heard.
James scoops up the fettuccini without rinsing them like a culinary criminal would do. “Because you’re not supposed to do that.”
I continue stirring the creamy sauce that smells like parmesan and pure heaven. As if he hadn’t just told me I’m living a lie. “Says who?”
“Says literally everyone.”
I don’t believe him. There’s simply no way I’ve been doing this wrong all along.
“Explain,” I demand, which makes him smirk. It’s barely there, but I watch that mouth tilt like a hawk.
“When you’re doing a hot pasta dish like we are right now, rinsing the pasta removes the starch from the surface, which prevents the sauce from sticking,” he says, and I hate that it makes so much sense.
“My life is a lie,” I mutter under my breath, but he hears me and chuckles, deep and manly and totally not hot. “I feel dumb.”
“There’s no reason why you should.” He places the pasta in both of our bowls and puts the pot in the sink. “The more you know, right?”
“At least I can make a mean sauce.” I’m not one to brag, but come on. If I could bathe myself in this cheesy delicacy, I totally would.
James leans in to smell it. When his eyes find mine, his face so close I can’t help but swallow back my nerves, he gives me one of his warmest smiles. I don’t see those very often, so I make sure to treasure it.
“Just when I thought you couldn’t be more talented.”
Jesus. He isn’t making this any easier.
This, meaning not thinking of him as more than my former PT who I happen to have great chemistry with.
Nothing will ever happen between you.
“It’s a great sauce, I’ll give you that.” I focus on the pan, careful to not let him see the very stupid and obvious blush on my cheeks. “But I don’t know about talented.”
“You dance, you draw, you cook…” James shrugs like it’s all, in fact, very easy to understand. “If that isn’t talent, I don’t know what is. I think the sauce is done. Here, let me.”
His fingers brush mine as he lifts the pan and pours it over our pasta bowls. My mouth waters at the smell, and maybe at the sight of those strong hands too. Sue me.
Once our food is done, we sit at the kitchen island and dive in. A moan escapes me as I take the first bite, and I close my eyes in pleasure. “Wow. We make a great cooking team,” I say, twirling some more pasta with my fork. “We should sign up for one of those TV contests.”
He arches an amused eyebrow. “Do you think we would win?”
“I’m very competitive,” I admit. “And they love a sob story more than anything. I have quite the experience with those.”
I didn’t mean for the words to come out. The last thing I want to do right now is talk about last night. I’m afraid I’ve dampened the mood, but then James says, “I don’t think I would last a week. I’d probably burn the first thing I put in the oven.”
“Dramatic much?”
“I wish. I’m good at stuff like this, but for some reason, ovens and I don’t get along. I’m so glad you didn’t suggest that we make a pizza.”
I chuckle at the mental picture of James cursing at his burnt pizza. “Now I kind of regret it. I would’ve gotten some good material to tease you with for a while.”
He glares at me, but he’s unable to hide the amusement glinting in his eyes. “You’re a menace, you know that?”
I fake an innocent shrug. “I had no idea.”
“Your turn.” He nudges my arm. “What’s one dish you always burn?”
“Would you believe me if I said I’ve never burned anything?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s true.” I give him the side-eye. “Not everyone is as talented as me, though. I get it.”
“Brat.”
“So you keep saying.”
“So you keep proving me right.”
I laugh, and the conversation shifts toward that one time I kind of burned something in the kitchen. Grace and I were baking some cupcakes for my brother’s birthday, but we accidentally forgot about them while they were in the oven. In my defense, I was more intrigued by the book I was reading than by my brother’s culinary present, and Lila had been born just a few months before, so Grace was busy with her.
But James still teases me about it, and I find comfort in the easy friendship we’re building brick by brick.
When we’re done eating, I offer to do the dishes, partly because I feel like it’s the least I can do for him after he let me stay the night, and partly because I’m a coward.
I know I’m delaying the inevitable. I’ll have to tell my brother about Pete sooner than later, and the responsible, good sister side of me tells me it has to be today.
Once the dishes and the kitchen are clean, I get dressed in last night’s clothes and find James looking through his phone. He sits on the couch with his legs open and one cat chilling on each of his thighs.
I chuckle at the adorable picture in front of me, and he looks up.
“What’s so funny?”
“You three.” I smile. “It’s so obvious that they love you.”
He smiles down at them and scratches their fluffy little heads. “They’re my babies.”
Thump, thump, thump.
There goes my heart.
It shouldn’t feel illegal to imagine him holding a baby, a real one, against that naked chest I so blatantly ogled earlier, but it does. It really does.
I shake my head, willing the heart-melting mental image to go away. “I just wanted to thank you for everything. For last night, for today… Um, everything.”
He frowns and places the cats on the couch so he can stand up. “You’re leaving?”
It hits me then—this isn’t a “Goodbye, I’ll see you later.” This is a “Goodbye. I probably won’t see you again.”
Because even if I’ll still see him for checkups, it won’t be the same. At the clinic, we aren’t Maddie and James, but Miss Stevens and Dr. Simmons.
We aren’t the kind of people who cook together, or joke with each other, or stare into the other’s eyes for far too long.
But what are my options? Tell him that I want to spend more time with him, doing whatever, because everything is easy and fun when we’re together?
He probably has other more interesting plans that don’t involve hanging out with someone ten years younger than him and more family drama than a soap opera.
“I should call my brother,” I tell him, trying not to focus on the warmth of his body, so close to mine. “I have to tell him about last night.”
He tips his head once in acknowledgment. “How are you feeling about seeing your father again?”
Isn’t that the question of the century?
I feel betrayed, hurt, empty, afraid. I feel many things I can’t find a name for, but most of all, I feel exhausted, so that’s what I tell James.
My father’s been a ghost for many years, and now he’s shown himself when I thought I’d never see him again for as long as I lived.
“But I’ll manage. My brother will know what to do.”
“Call me if you need anything,” he says, so firm and serious I want to believe him. I want to believe he’ll always be there for me, but I can’t. “I mean it, Maddie. I’ll text you from my personal number so you can have it.”
I nod and give him a smile, unsure of what else to do. Hug him? He doesn’t strike me as an overly touchy person, and I’ve already crossed that line once.
“I’m here for you as well,” I offer with sincerity. “Take care, yeah?”
His eyes pierce mine, looking for something I’m not sure he’ll find. “Text me when you get home safe.”
My heart melts into a gooey puddle. Nobody has ever worried about me like this aside from Sammy and Grace. It feels good to be appreciated, but I don’t allow myself to dwell on it too long.
It never lasts. You make sure of it.
So, with a smile and a goodbye, I exit the comfort of James’s apartment for the very last time.
