The Art of Scandal(42)

He straightened, flushed and short of breath. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, afraid that if she spoke, it would be a stream of babbling thank yous. Or worse. She might burst into tears.

By the time they moved to the bed, she had started to recover. She slid naked between the sheets and watched him undress. Nathan could have been a Greek sculpture with his contoured chest and defined six-pack that tapered in a V into his pants. She was in good shape, but she was also older—softer in places that used to be firm. Nathan’s body looked healthy and new in a way that made her feel every one of her thirty-seven years. She sat back on the bed and pulled the sheet up over her breasts.

“Hey.” He sat beside her. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Her gaze roamed over his chest. His tattoos were a living painting on a bronze canvas. “You’re a little too beautiful. It broke my brain for a minute.”

His face reddened, and he ducked his head—smiling big enough to make his eyes wrinkle at the corners. “I’m not thinking clearly either.” His eyes slid over her, lingering where the sheet covered her breasts. “I pictured this, you in my bed, but the real thing is just…” He shook his head. “I shouldn’t say what I’m thinking.”

She sat up, and the sheet slid lower. His eyes tracked its progression. “What are you thinking?”

“It’s inappropriate.”

A laugh burst from her throat, and that crooked grin slid across his face. “I think we’re past that,” she said.

“We are? Good.” He unfastened his belt and dropped it on the floor.

He spent the rest of the night proving with his body—hands on her wrists, hips between her legs, his mouth hot and greedy against her skin—that this was what she was made for. That she was just blood and muscle, skin stretched over atoms colliding. They came, shuddering and gasping, bodies hot and slick as they collapsed into an exhausted heap.

She loved the heavy weight of him pressing her down into the mattress. Nathan pushed her hair back and smiled. “Like I said. My thoughts were inappropriate.” She laughed. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet and serious. “How are you feeling? Was that—”

“I am fine,” Rachel said, cupping his cheek. “And that was incredible.”

“You’re incredible.” He kissed her and climbed out of bed. “I’ll get you some water.” He paused to look at her. “Promise you’ll be right there when I get back.”

She settled against the pillows, the pull of sleep already thickening her words. “I promise.”





CHAPTER TEN


Nathan had never been ghosted. It was something he’d never even thought about until he woke up alone, grasping at empty sheets. Rachel was gone. He checked his phone, assuming she’d sent a message. Nothing. Not even a missed call.

Once the realization hit, he spent the next forty-eight hours drafting whiny texts he would never send. What could he even say? On a scale of maybe someday to blocking this number, what are my chances of ever seeing you again?

On the third day of silence, he decided to let it go. When his alarm went off, he got up long enough to open the laundromat, before crawling back under his covers to lick his wounds. He dozed off again but was startled awake by someone knocking on his door. He didn’t move. But then it turned into pounding.

“Open up!” Joe yelled. “I know you’re in there. I saw your car.”

Nathan squinted at his alarm clock. It was five thirty a.m., the usual time for their workouts. They started this ritual when Nathan moved out, and now, three times a week, Joe would bring breakfast, harass Nathan into getting dressed faster, and then drive him to the gym.

Nathan opened the door. “I heard you the first fifty times.”

“Then you should have answered. And what is this?” Joe took in Nathan’s undressed state with disgust. His brother wore black gym shorts with a sleeveless mesh top and had two bright green smoothies in his hands. “We’re gonna be late.”

“The gym’s not going anywhere.”

“I’ve got a meeting at seven and a lunch thing with—”

“You’re important. Got it.”

Nathan walked to his dresser to search for his workout clothes. Joe set the extra smoothie down in front of him. “Breakfast.”

Nathan’s irritation faded. Joe guarded the homemade mixture the way their mother hoarded her cabrito recipe. He pulled on a pair of workout shorts. “Hey look, that stuff I said at the party—”

Joe grunted and shooed the rest of the sentence away. “You ever use this thing?” he asked, pointing to the drafting table.

Nathan immediately thought about Rachel asking the same thing. She’d walked into the room and zeroed in on all his vulnerable spots. He never should have brought her here. He should have taken her home and reminded himself of his no-drama policy, which included women who made you forget to hide how desperate for affection you really were.

Teasing Joe was easy. It was also a good distraction. Nathan shrugged, picked up his cup, and gave Joe wide eyes over the rim. “It’s a good clothing rack. No wrinkles.”

“A good clothing rack?” Joe whipped around to stare at the table. “I spent weeks searching for this thing. It’s the top brand, specifically designed for left-handed people and—” Joe dabbed at the air like he was holding an invisible paintbrush. “Art… stuff.” He paused and said, “Do you have any idea how much this cost?”