Gently pulling the blanket back, I climbed out of bed and put my hair up into a ponytail. I grabbed one of his shirts from the laundry basket by the bed and slipped it on, taking small comfort in the way it stopped at the top of my thighs. It was such a cliche thing, to wear a boyfriend’s shirt, to feel small and feminine and soft.

Boyfriend. Had I actually thought of him that way? Pausing by the doorway, I looked back at the bed, his body relaxed and his breaths quiet, easy. We hadn’t discussed what we were, who we were. So much of us was secret. But something had shifted the night before. Every time we’d had sex before had been a result of something, a need we both fed. But last night had been different. More.

I glanced at the few photos that he’d hung over the stairs, landscapes in black and white, framed with white mats and black wood surround. I paused on the step, touched a photo of Boston’s skyline, featuring the John Hancock Tower. The lights reflected off the Charles River below. At the very bottom of the photograph, I saw initials: D.A.E.

I didn’t have to search my brain for who I guessed it was, because her name hadn’t left my head—Diana. Nathan’s wife. Nathan’s deceased wife. A shudder moved through me and my fingers left the frame. Moving down the stairs, I studiously avoided looking at the rest of the photographs, not wanting to see pieces of a ghost still lingering.

Nathan’s kitchen was expansive, separated from an eat-in kitchen by a large island topped with a thick butcher block. The cabinets were shiny white, the countertops a black granite. And it was tidy; whatever small appliances Nathan owned were tucked away, leaving me to marvel at all the space one could use for cooking, baking.

The fridge was stocked with juices, milk, a pitcher of what looked like real lemonade and an assortment of beer and wine. More than anything, I noticed how very neat it looked. I counted five different cheeses, several kinds of meats and full fruit and veggie drawers; everything in its place.

I was halfway through taking mental stock of his pantry when I felt the guilt creep in for having snooped. Everything was labeled with neat type face labels and it struck me as not something a man would think to do. As tidy as Nathan seemed, I couldn’t believe he took the time to label his grains and lentils as well.

It left an uncomfortable feeling in my belly and I decided I didn’t want to snoop around his things anymore. Grabbing the pancake mix and a bag of chocolate chips, I decided to make him breakfast.

Pancake flour coated the island and me by the time Nathan walked into the kitchen wearing only a pair of fleece pajama bottoms. “Hi,” I said with a grin. “Want some coffee?”

Instead of replying, his eyes swept the kitchen, not looking right at me. I turned my head and took in the mess I’d made. Flour handprints could be seen on the handle of the stainless steel fridge, and splatters of light batter like polka dots on the dark granite. But none of that was probably as alarming as the chocolate smears on the cupboards to the left of the stove. I should’ve washed my hands before grabbing plates, I realized belatedly.

Since he didn’t answer, I poured him a cup from the pot I’d brewed earlier and topped it with a little cream. After wiping away the chocolate thumbprint, I pushed the mug into his hands. “Here, sit.” I gestured to one of the chairs at the island and pushed a plate toward him. He remained agonizingly quiet, taking in the kitchen still. “Don’t tell me you don’t like chocolate chip pancakes,” I said.

Finally, he looked at me. His eyes held such wariness, confusion, like he wasn’t sure what to do with me.

“I know,” I answered his unspoken thought. Gesturing around at the mess I’d made, I said, “Don’t worry, I’ll clean up.” I pushed the plate toward him again. “Eat.”

I started busying myself with wiping down the stove and loading the dishwasher with the pan and bowl I’d used. “By the way, I’m on the pill.”

There was a choking noise behind me and I straightened, turning around. Nathan held a fist to his mouth as he stared at me.

“Your email and text, from before.” I raised an eyebrow. “We never had a chance to talk about it between coffee and sex yesterday, but I’m on the pill. And I’m clean.” The truth was, I’d never not used a condom with another man before, not even in the heat of the moment. But I’d trusted Nathan with not giving me a raging case of the warts.

“You’re choosing now to bring that up?” he finally said.

I wiped my hands on my apron. “When would be better? Over a candlelight dinner?”

He swallowed a bite and nodded. “I see your point. A pancake breakfast can suffice.” He cut into the pancake and held the bite up on his fork. “Incidentally, these are very good.” He popped it into his mouth and gave me a small smile as he chewed.

“Well thank you.” I curtsied and began wiping down the butcher block. “It’s nice to have a real kitchen to work in. Mine is so small.”

“Despite its size, it never looks like a bomb of batter went off.”

I shot him a look and he grinned, leaning over the butcher block with his cup of coffee, coming across as more relaxed than when he’d entered the kitchen.

“If you haven’t noticed,” I began, spraying the counter and wiping it, “I don’t have very many possessions. Hard to make a mess when you’re living meagerly.”

“I did notice, actually.” He took another bite and leaned back, stretching. “But thank you for breakfast, Adele. This was a nice surprise.”

I observed the way his muscles flexed as he stretched, thankful for his lack of shirt. But I couldn’t help but want to unsettle him a little bit, after seeing how much more relaxed he became as the kitchen turned from disaster zone into normal again.

Trailing my fingers along the counter as I turned toward him, I took heady pleasure in how his own fingers stilled, his eyes trailing me like an invisible cord was pulling me to him.

I dipped my finger into the syrup puddle on his plate and brought it to his jaw, sliding my finger along the edge. My lips replaced my finger and I sucked his skin, swiping it with my tongue as I cleaned up the path I’d drawn.

His hands cradled my skull and pulled my head up before his lips descended on mine, teeth biting gently into my lower lip. He tasted of chocolate and syrup and coffee and I scratched my nails into his neck, not wanting to separate our lips for even a second.

He hauled me into his lap, ran his hands up my thighs and under the shirt I wore. His fingers brushed the underside of my breast before he pulled his lips from mine. “Nice shirt,” he murmured, looking down between us as I straddled him.

His hands were warm and I arched into his touch as his fingers explored under the shirt: over my ribs, the curve of my waist, up the center of my chest. His hand gripped the center of the neckline and made a fist, forcing me closer.

Our lips just touched, not kissing—just breathing. “What are you doing to me?” he whispered.

I didn’t answer; couldn’t answer. Because whatever it was, he was doing it to me too.

Chapter Twenty-Five

In the week since I’d made Nathan breakfast, I’d become a wanton woman. After every class, I’d taken my time putting my things into my bag, hoping to steal a few moments of time with him. I’d taken a chance the last class, planting a kiss on his lips seconds after the last student had left.

Each time, he’d told me to leave but not without regret coloring his words. In an effort to protect me—in his words—we’d been hands above the belt for the last week. Students had moved into the apartment across the hall from me, which meant my place was off-limits. And though he hadn’t told me not to go to his house, he hadn’t explicitly invited me over either.