Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 91216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Chapter Eighteen
Chloe
Confusion, slight guilt, and one hell of a doozy of a hangover has made this morning pretty brutal. I’ve never been more in need of my coffee and my favorite pastry from Pete’s Cafe. As much as I wanted to stay in bed today, I forced myself out. I normally don’t need to come into the office as often as I have been, but with the holiday season and my recent posts getting so much engagement, I’m starting to feel like a regular commuter.
The ferry ride, squinting against the harsh morning light only adds to my irritable mood. The sidewalk seems to sway beneath my feet as I made my way down the block. Thank god Pete’s was only two streets over. The bell jingles as I push open the cafe door, the aroma of freshly ground beans hitting me like a much-needed slap to the face.
I don’t know what the hell got into me last night. Oh I know . . . too many peppermint martinis. That’s what. But regardless of the booze, I still can’t believe I actually went online and sexted with a complete stranger. Not only sexted but masturbated. Part of me woke up this morning thinking it had to be a dream, right? Because no sane woman would do something like that.
I shuffle up to the counter, avoiding eye contact with the barista, mumbling my usual order as I fumble with my wallet. I wince at the sound of the espresso machine grinding, each whir feeling like a drill to my temples. As I wait for my order, I lean against the counter, my eyes closed, trying to will away the pounding in my head. The cafe chatter fades to a dull hum as my mind drifts back to last night’s escapade. Flashes of explicit messages and blurry memories of sitting naked in front of my computer dance behind my eyelids, making my cheeks burn with embarrassment.
But embarrassment isn’t nearly as bad as the guilt ripping me up. Why do I feel guilty? I’ve done nothing wrong. What I do in the privacy of my home and—I’m single. Sure, I’ve been talking to Jack, but it’s not like anything has happened. We haven’t even been on our first official date yet. It’s not like we’re exclusive. Hell, we haven’t kissed yet, or even came close . . . much to my dismay.
I mean . . . is there even anything between Jack and me? Maybe we’ve stepped into friend zone.
“Order for Chloe!”
I jolt at the sound of my name, my eyes snapping open. The barista is holding out my coffee and pastry, a concerned look on her face. I must look as terrible as I feel.
“Thanks,” I mutter, grabbing my order and shuffling to leave.
As I turn to leave, I bump into a solid chest, spilling my precious coffee all over my white blouse. Strong hands steady me, and I look up, mortified, into the welcoming eyes of none other than Jack.
I stare at him, my mouth agape, unable to form words. Of all the people to run into, it had to be him. My face burns hotter, and I’m not sure if it’s from embarrassment or the scalding coffee seeping through my shirt.
“Shit. Sorry,” I stammer, finally finding my voice. “Just a little clumsy this morning.”
Jack’s eyes flick down to my stained blouse, then back up to my face. A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Rough night?”
If only he knew. I nod, trying to ignore the way my stomach flips at his proximity. “You could say that.”
He reaches past me, grabbing a handful of napkins from the counter. “Here, let me help.”
Before I can protest, he’s dabbing at my blouse, his touch gentle but firm. I hold my breath, hyperaware of every point of contact between us. The guilt from earlier resurfaces, mixing with a confusing cocktail of attraction and shame.
“Ugh. Of course. I was headed into the office to pick up some new jewelry pieces. It’ll be lovely to arrive like this.”
Jack chuckles softly, his breath warm against my ear. “I think this shirt is a lost cause.”
“Fuck my life.”
Jack’s eyes sparkle with amusement. “I have an idea,” he says, stepping back slightly. “My apartment’s around the corner. I’ve got a clean shirt you could borrow. It will be big but maybe you can tuck it in or knot it or something.”
I hesitate, torn between the desire to escape this embarrassing situation and the unexpected thrill of being invited to Jack’s apartment. My hangover-addled brain struggles to make a decision.
“I don’t want to impose,” I mumble, still acutely aware of his proximity.
Jack shakes his head, his smile widening. “It’s no imposition at all. Besides, I’m partially to blame.”
I bite my lip, weighing my options. On one hand, going to Jack’s apartment feels dangerously intimate, especially given my current state and the guilt still gnawing at me. On the other hand, I can’t exactly show up to work looking like I’ve been in a coffee-based bar fight.