Page 37 of The Art of Scandal

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 goodclothing 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?”

Nathan took a drink of his smoothie and tried not to shudder at the taste of vinegary kale swimming in frozen bananas. “Five grand.” He pointed to a loaf of sourdough. “Do you have any idea how muchthatcost?”

Joe’s face slacked at the sight of the bread. George W. Bush was in office the last time he’d gone to a grocery store. “Whatever. I accept your non-apology. Make it up to me.”

Nathan grinned and slammed back the rest of his smoothie. It was like guzzling a juiced fern. “How?”

“Mom asked me to go to this luncheon for Matt Abbott. You’re coming too.”

“I don’t think—”

“Didn’t ask you to think. Find another shirt with buttons and show up to the club Thursday at noon.”

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