Page 51 of Fierce Love
Then I focus on Kinsley and Indy, who are strutting around the room, lanyards dangling from their necks.
“What are those?” I ask.
“Backstage passes,” Kinsley squeals. “We’re going tomeetMia Malone.”
“I cannot even believe this,” Indy says, hugging Kinsley. “This is going to be the best weekend of my life.”
“And this apartment,” Kinsley says, twirling around. “We could fit like ten of Aunt Verna’s apartments in here. There are five bedrooms.Five!”
“And they all have their own bathroom,” Indy says.
“The kitchen has all our favorite snacks,” Kinsley says. “There’s even a bottle of that Bellerive sweet tea you like—the one from that hotel—in the fridge.”
I cross the room to the kitchen, and I open the fridge. Sure enough, my favorite sweet tea is there, and my mind ticks through how long Nate has had these concert tickets and how heavily he banked on me not being able to say no. As I open other cupboards and drawers, I find foods I’ve been eating at work as snacks or that I’ve mentioned having a craving for in passing during casual conversations the last few weeks.
“Wow,” I whisper, and Kinsley’s at my shoulder.
“Right? And he left us Mia Malone concert merch too. Like stuff people only get from the VIP packages we’ve seen people open on TikTok, and not likesomeof the stuff—I meanallof it.”
When I glance back at the kitchen table, I see what she means. There are T-shirts, tote bags, stickers, pins, signed headshots, and I can’t even see what else. It’s an explosion of Mia Malone.
“There are three sets,” Kinsley says as Indy sifts through everything and keeps holding stuff up for me to see from where I stand. “You get it too.”
“You can take it to school,” I say. “Give it to your friends.” I like Mia Malone’s music, but I’m not one to collect or fawn over fan apparel.
“Can I take some of it too?” Indy asks. “My little sister was so jealous I was coming here this weekend.”
“Sure,” I say. “Just divide it up.” My heart is slow-thudding in my chest, and I can’t decide if I need to leave the apartment or sit down. “You girls should get to sleep,” I say. “Tomorrow will be a long day.”
They grab their things and go from bedroom to bedroom, finally deciding on one that has bunk beds that look like pods built into the wall with an actual staircase to the top bunk and bookshelves stacked with books.
I hover at the door for a beat and then make a decision. “I’m just going to pop over and thank Nate for all this,” I say.
Kinsley barely spares me a glance as she gathers her things for the en suite bathroom. “Sure. We’ll see you in the morning.”
“You’re okay, Indy?” I ask, feeling a little uncertain about leaving them alone, even if I’m only going across the hall for a minute.
“Yep,” Indy says. “Better than good,” she says as she practically hops into the bathroom behind Kinsley.
I hesitate for one more beat, battling with my urge to be overprotective and questioning the wisdom of going to Nate’s apartment. One close encounter today was enough.
But heaven help me, I’m not sureenoughexists where Nate Tucker is concerned.
The girls are oblivious to my struggle, chatting to each other while brushing their teeth.
I slip out of our apartment, and I stand at his door. The key he gave me, presumably so I didn’t need to knock or ask permission to enter, is in my hand. Without letting myself overthink it any longer, I slot it into the lock and push open the door.
“Nate?” I call into the open space. Unlike the first apartment, there’s no entryway here. I’m into the open living room and kitchen immediately. The layout seems a little smaller than the other apartment—still high ceilings, expensive furnishings, but slightly cozier, as though people actuallyusethis apartment. “Nate?” I call again, making my way deeper into the apartment.
I check the time on my phone and realize it’s late. Maybe I should have just texted him. Maybe he’s already asleep. I poke my head into the first bedroom, but there’s no sign of him. Twobedrooms later, I hear a noise from across the apartment, and I head that way.
“Nate?” I call, tentative.
There’s a set of double doors flung wide, and Nate’s overnight bag is open on the floor, and then the sound of the shower finally registers. I turn to leave, realizing I should have texted instead of letting myself into his apartment like a creeper, when I catch sight of him through the partially open bathroom door. The shower stall is huge, and the big glass panels give a clear view of him, naked.
He’s under the showerhead, one of his hands braced against the wall while the other is running up and down the length of his long, thick cock. Water flows over him, little rivers everywhere. My stomach flutters. And I know I should look away, that I shouldn’t stand here, frozen and transfixed. I should back up to the bedroom doorway and call his name loudly, announce my presence. My heel rocks back on a tentative step when Nate moans, “Fuck, Hols,” and I freeze again.
The tempo of his hand increases, and his head drops, mouth slightly agape. Heat pools in my belly and spreads lower.
