Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Of course it could happen now, as we take off our work hats and settle back into life as roommates. But Nate sidesteps the issue altogether when he tells me he’s heading into town. He’s the one running this time, saving me the trouble. I get the cottage to myself for dinner. I fill a plate with whatever my heart desires, cheese and pickles and crackers, and I call Cat down from upstairs and feed him dinner while I read in front of the fire.
Nate doesn’t come home before I go to sleep, but when I go to use the restroom in the middle of the night, I see a few boxes of tampons sitting beside my door. He got them for me while he was in town.
CHAPTER 19
SUMMER
It’s strange that Nate and I don’t discuss the night we spent together in front of the fire. Not once. Not the day after it happened, or the day after that, or the day after that. A week passes in which Nate and I work like we were supposed to work from the very beginning. If we were being graded on productivity, it would be all gold stars and perfect 100s. If we were being graded on honesty, well, we’d both be getting called into the principal’s office for a stern talking to.
I know why I’m avoiding the topic. At least I think I’ve mostly got it. I try not to think about it too much because it makes my stomach hurt every time I do, and then I break out in a cold sweat and I can’t meet Nate’s eyes again for a few hours for fear that I’ll blush and give myself away.
Nothing good would come from us rehashing things. No matter how overwhelmingly perfect Nate was, I’m not prepared to completely throw away my life with Andrew. He and I have been together for a long time. A part of me still thinks we could end up together forever. I can’t give that up overnight, can I? I mean I’d never hear the end of it from Emma and my parents. Ugh.
There’s also the tricky situation of Nate and me trying to preserve some semblance of a platonic work relationship…
Yes. It’s settled. Everything is best left unsaid.
If Nate and I were to have a serious sit-down conversation about our hookup or were to continue what we started, who knows how far we’d take it? Would we even be able to pull ourselves apart? Regain control? Surface for air?
I’m at the coffee pot in the kitchen, mulling all of this over, and no matter how much I try to remind myself of why it’s wrong, the idea of tumbling into Nate’s bed makes my toes curl. I know, deep down, all the very important reasons for why I’m keeping Nate at a distance might totally fly out the window if I knew how Nate felt. If he wanted…
I hear footsteps on the stairs and I shake myself. It doesn’t matter.
I stand up straighter and reach for a second mug, his mug. I feel his presence behind me like I feel his presence everywhere in this house: acutely, intrinsically, painfully.
“Coffee’s almost ready.” I say this without looking at him because I find it’s actually very hard to meet his eye these days. Almost impossible.
When I do, I swear I see emotion in them that gives me pause.
“Smells good.”
He heads for the refrigerator to get the cream for me. He doesn’t take his coffee with cream, so the fact that he goes out of his way every morning to get it for me is just…well, it’s a real problem. I need him to start acting cruel or arrogant or selfish. That would help me sleep easier at night. I would love to hate this man.
I finally gain the courage to look up as he steps close and drops the cream on the counter. Instead of leaving, he rests his hip beside it and tilts his head, studying me while we wait for the coffee to finish brewing.
If that’s what we’re doing, I’ll study him right back. No problem. He hasn’t completely shaved his face since the day of my bicycle accident, but he’s consistent about trimming his scruff now. I’ve thought about this a lot, and I think his facial hair is a sort of barometer for his feelings. By not shaving, he’s telling me, point-blank, that he’s uninterested in any more kissing.
“You seem tired,” he says with a look of concern.
I roll my eyes. “Well at least you didn’t say I look tired. That would be worse.”
“No, you look fine.”
Fine is said with a harsh edge like it was hard for him to comment on my looks at all, much less in a slightly positive way.
“I haven’t been sleeping well.” I shrug.