Page 18 of Chilled and Thrilled

Tonight is different. For one thing, it’s just the two of us. For another, I’m committed to ceasing any and all wall-fuck fantasizing. Easier said than done, now that the man has literally saved my life.

I mean, come on.

Here I am, trying to do the right thing for everyone and get over the guy. Then, he has to go and push me out of the way of an out-of-control car, carry me through a snowstorm,sit with me in the emergency room for three hours, and take me back to his home.

I’ve decided to pretend the moment in his bedroom didn’t happen. Denial seems like the best course of action here.

Upon inspection, it turns out that the tank top I was wearing beneath my sweater miraculously avoided blood stains. My limbs feel heavy and weak as I put it back on, along with Bram’s sweatpants, trying (and failing) not to think about his dick coming in contact with the same soft, worn material as is currently brushing my bare skin.

The bedroom he showed me to is stunning, with an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, framed in natural wood beams that extend over the slanted ceiling. The bed is made up with puffy, forest-green bedding, and I’ll probably need a running start to get into it later with how high it is. On the opposite wall, an entertainment station is stocked with a huge TV, books, and even a little basket of individually packaged snacks.

I’m so far out of my league here.

The back of my head throbs as I gather my hair up into a loose bun. The pull of my skin in the sutures is strange, but the pain isn’t as horrible as I would have expected. Slipping my phone into my pocket, I do my best to ignore the butterflies and heated twist of anticipation low in my belly as I poke my head out into the hall and look both ways.

Bram is nowhere in sight, but I can guess where he is because something smells amazing.

Like, actually incredible. The kind of food smell you get when you’re walking by a gourmet restaurant on your way to get Taco Bell. I’m not great in the kitchen (hence the excessive Taco Bell consumption), and most of my expertise lies in breakfast food and takeout ordering. In our apartment, Honor is the designated cook, and it never occurred to me that she might have learned from Bram until this moment.

I edge downstairs. It’s totally dark outside now, and I’m able to see the reflection of the kitchen in the windows opposite the stairs.

Pausing halfway down, I watch as Bram’s tall form moves into view, his hair damp and brow furrowed in concentration. It’s the same face he makes when he’s studying a blueprint or listening to someone’s project pitch that he’s not so sure about. Now, it’s directed toward a simmering saucepan, which must be the source of the scent currently responsible for my salivary glands going into overdrive. Meanwhile, my stomach, which hasn’t enjoyed the steady stream of snacks it’s become accustomed to today, growls audibly.

As if he can sense me standing here, Bram looks toward the window I’m currently using to creep, and his eyes meet mine in the dark glass. A hot, restless pulse of awareness moves through me, and as I begin my descent again, I force myself to take a long, deep breath.

Keep it together, Sophie.

“Hi.” Bram props the wooden spoon he’s been using on the edge of the pan, dark eyes searching my face. “Still feeling alright?”

“A little sore,” I admit, reaching up to touch the back of my head gingerly. “Much better now that I’m not cosplaying murder victim number four from the Saw movies.”

Apparently satisfied that I’m not about to keel over, Bram turns his attention back to the food, clearing his throat. “I wasn’t sure what you liked. Is mushroom risotto okay?”

“It’s great. I should be cooking for you, though. It’s the least I can do.” I wince, immediately regretting the offer when I realize he could possibly take me up on it. I’ve embarrassed myself enough for one day.

“It’s my pleasure.”

I’m not sure what to say to that, so I look away, studying the beautiful room we’re standing in. Much like my bedroomupstairs, the ceiling is composed of stained wood panels that make the whole space feel like a warm hug. My heart sinks when my gaze catches on a framed picture of Bram, Leni, and Honor sitting on the mantel. It’s recent, taken at Honor’s and my college graduation. His arms are around their shoulders, and father and daughters are smiling into the camera.

It’s familiar, because I was the one who took it. Afterward, Bram bought lunch to celebrate. The four of us sat at a round table at a Chinese food restaurant full of other graduates and their families, laughing about the weird commencement speaker and talking about our plans for the coming months. Honor and I had just decided to get an apartment together in her hometown, and when I mentioned needing space for my resin printer, Bram’s eyes lit up.

That was the first time I realized I was attracted to my best friend’s father. Not in a passive, objective way, more like a please pin me down and use me to fulfill your every filthy desire way.

God, I’m a mess.

Eager for distraction, I look around the room, examining it more closely than I did when we walked in. Despite the upcoming holiday, Bram doesn’t have a tree or any decorations set up. Whatever holiday plans he had, it’s clear he had no intention of spending them here.

A pain, sharper and more acute than the injury that necessitated me being here in the first place, spreads outward from the center of my chest.

“I’ll get out of here as soon as the roads are clear,” I promise, perching half my butt on one of the stools across from him. “Honor said you had plans. I won’t get in the way.”

Bram’s movement toward the saltshaker falters, and he clears his throat, looking a little embarrassed. “I don’t have plans.”

Interest piqued, I watch as he resumes his cooking. I’mnot sure if it’s my imagination or not, but I could swear there’s a little bit more color in his cheeks than there was a minute ago. “Canceled because of the storm?” I ask, trying to sound as though this is a throwaway question and I’m not even a little emotionally invested in the answer.

“No.” Bram peers up at me, offering a tight smile. “I was never doing anything. I just didn’t want Honor and Leni to feel guilty for not spending the day with me.”

“Oh.” I fiddle with the tie of my borrowed sweatpants. Fabulous. As if I needed further evidence of what a good guy he is. “Well, if it makes you feel better, I also told Honor I had plans for Christmas because I didn’t want her to feel guilty.”

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