There he is.
“Let’s get you home,” he says, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the passenger side.
“Okay,” I whisper, not knowing if he’s talking about his place or mine, and not caring one bit either way.
***
I must’ve fallen asleep in the car, because when I wake up I’m in bed.
Not my bed, either.
A man’s bed. Dark gray sheets, sparse wooden headboard, not a single decorative throw pillow to be found. My face turns on the pillowcase and the scent of smoke and leather and Nate floods my senses.
I’m in his bed.
I sit up abruptly, sending the sheets flying. Chilled air hits my skin and I look down to discover I’m practically naked except for my strapless black bra and a pair of what looks like men’s boxers. They’re huge on me — rolled at least three times at the hips to keep them in place — but that’s the least of my concerns.
I’m wearing Nate’s boxers.
Which means… someone took me out of my panties and put me in Nate’s boxers. And that someone was probably…
“You’re awake.”
At the sound of his voice, my gaze flies toward the doorway where he’s leaning, arms crossed over his chest and intent eyes locked on my face. When they flicker down to my exposed body for a fraction of an instant, I squeak like Boo’s favorite duck toy and scramble to pull the sheet up over the girls.
I lift my eyes back to Nate’s, fully expecting to find them crinkled up at the corners. Instead, there’s a look in them that makes my breath catch and my throat close.
Fearlustangerhopesadnessguiltrelief.
“Nate…” My voice catches on his name and his eyes shutter.
“How are you feeling?” The words are halting.
“I’m fine.”
He stares at me, calling my bluff.
I sigh. “Fine. I’m tired. Somewhat sore. My eye feels about six times its normal size,” I admit. “Nothing that won’t heal.”
“We need to talk about what happened.”
“I know,” I say softly, eyes dropping to the sheet spread over my legs. “Can I clean up first?” I ask, voice shaky.
I hear a sound — half sigh, half curse — and then he’s there, sitting on the edge of the bed just inches from me. Without lifting my eyes, I can see his thigh, encased in black denim, so close I could reach out and stroke it.
He clears his throat harshly.
“Do you…” He breaks off. When I lift my eyes again, I see his hands are tight fists at his sides. “Do you need help? I can call someone. Lila, Gemma… Or I can…” He pulls in a breath. “I can help you shower.”
He’s trying to be considerate, but I gulp at the idea of Nate running his hands across my wet, naked skin.
“I’ll manage,” I say shakily, eyes on his.
He nods and rises to his feet.
“Bathroom’s through there.” He gestures at the door. “Fresh towels on the shelf. Some clothes you can borrow.”
“Okay.”
He disappears without another word.
***
“Drink this.”
He slides a glass of water across the butcher-block counter. It’s a thick slab of dark-stained wood, matching the other oak accents throughout his loft. As I drain my glass, I look around.
The space is an open plan — a former industrial building, most likely — with big glass-block windows, exposed brick walls, and matte-black painted air ducts crisscrossing the ceiling. The furniture is sparse — only his bed, a black leather couch, and some bar stools pulled up to the kitchen island, with a tiny bathroom tucked into the far corner. No photographs, no knickknacks, no clutter.
I’ve seen monks’ quarters with more personality.
Soft track lights illuminate the space. It’s still dark outside, which means I only slept for an hour or so before my shower. I should’ve slept longer, but my dreams were full of images that made me shiver awake.
I set the glass down on the wood counter and he quickly refills it.