We stare at each other in the same way.

And when he sinks into me, we’re both feeling it—something else. Something new.

I might not know much about sex.

I might never have been in love.

But I know this much. Somehow I’ve fallen for him. Hard, fast, relentlessly.

I’m pretty sure it’s the same way for him.

That’s how he fucks me in the shower.

Like he wants me, like he needs me, and like he’s as utterly floored by what’s happened in a week as I am.

When he reaches the edge and I follow him there, coming again, coming together, I don’t want to stop.

I don’t want us to stop.

And I don’t want to pretend at all, not one bit.

Maybe he doesn’t either, since he cups my cheeks, presses his forehead to mine, and whispers, “I’m so crazy about you, Nadia.”

My heart flutters wildly. “I’m pretty mad about you, Crosby. And there’s nothing accidental about it.”

He laughs softly, then his laughter fades. “What the hell are we going to do about this?”

I shrug. “Wash my hair, then let’s get some breakfast and figure out what kind of frocktangular mess we’ve made of our friends-with-benefits plan.”

“It’s a fuckerrific mess, that’s for sure.”

27

Crosby

I know three things right now.

These eggs at Helen’s Organic Café around the corner from Nadia’s place are moan-inducing.

The tea is life-giving.

And the woman across from me is quite possibly the reason I’ve picked the wrong women for ages.

Was I waiting for Nadia all along? Had I already met the right woman when we were younger, so I torpedoed everything else with terrible choices?

I’d bet I did. Everything about Nadia feels right.

We laugh. We talk. We connect. We share.

And we smolder.

She’s a friend and a lover.

This thing we’re doing right now? Eating breakfast after making love? After that kind of sex, that kind of soul-deep intimacy?

Hell, I want it. I want it with her—badly.

But something nags at me from the back of my mind.

Several somethings.

The deal I made with her brother. The same one I made with Gabe and the guys too.

It’s the same promise I made to myself. A few weeks ago, I was so fed up with my own poor judgment that I asked my friends to be the rubber band I snap on my wrist to break my bad habit. Because I’m tired of wading through my own relationship wreckage.

I know I don’t make the best choices.

That’s the crux of the issue.

What if this choice—wanting to be with Nadia—is another disastrous decision, only I don’t know it yet? Like I didn’t realize Camille was bad news? Like I didn’t know Daria would be terrible for me?

Here I am untangling from the remnants of girlfriends past, and while Nadia isn’t one bit like my ex-girlfriends, I’m still me. I’m the one who needs fixing, needs a hard reset.

I don’t want whatever this thing is with Nadia to backfire simply because I have a bad track record.

I set down my fork, then drag a hand through my hair. “I don’t know what to do.”

She blinks, as if shifting mental gears, but she asks, “About what?” like she already suspects the answer. Maybe she’s been thinking in the same circles.

“About how the hell we became a we in a week.”

She shrugs a little helplessly. “I know. I came to town to focus on the team. You needed a break from relationships.” She scoffs lightly. “And now look at us.”

I slide my hand across the table, gripping hers. “I don’t know if I should trust myself. A few weeks ago, I was telling your brother how I was radioactive. That I needed to detox. And that’s what scares the shit out of me.”

“Detoxing?” she asks, a little confused.

I shake my head. “No. That I needed to do one thing, but I did the opposite. I intoxxed. I intoxxed you.” My heart fills and empties at the same time. “I’m falling so hard for you, Nadia,” I say, and it feels wonderful to give her the truth of my heart, but terrible too.

“I’m completely falling for you,” she says. In her voice I hear the same kind of hope I feel, and a thread of the same worry too.

That’s the trouble. Is this a false hope?

“But the last thing I want in the whole entire universe is to screw this up, Nadia,” I say.

She nods slowly in understanding, maybe even agreement. “Because it’s happening so fast?”

“It’s like a wild roller-coaster ride we’re on, and I don’t know how to pull the brake, or if we even should. I want to be with you, but I also don’t want to ruin this by rushing things when the timing is wrong, or the timing is against us?”

She winces, but nods too, taking it on the chin. “I feel the same. I wanted nothing to do with a relationship when I moved back, and now . . .”

I finish the thought. “We’re practically having one?” It comes out heavily.

So does her reply. “We are. Instant relationship, just add water.”

I scrub a hand over my jaw. I’m pretty sure falling in love should make you stupidly happy, not constantly worried you’ll torch the best thing that ever happened to you with one false move.

But maybe there’s a way to pull this off. Maybe we can pull us off the way we originally planned.

There has to be a way to get back on track. To salvage our initial intent. If it’s friends-only or lose her completely, I’ll do it.

I brace myself for what I’m about to propose. “I know what we should do.”

Her eyes flick to mine, hopeful. “You do? Please tell me.”

“The plan was to stay friends, right? We need to adult the fuck out of this. We need to adult it for real this time. We never truly tried to buddy up. We said we would, but we didn’t.”

She jumps in, picking up the thread like we’re solving a business problem. “You’re right. We planned to buddy up, and instead we fell into bed.”

“We’re supposed to try being friends. Try for real. Not get all wrapped up in each other.”

“Exactly,” she says, agreeing, her brown eyes intense, how I suspect she is at work. “We can’t just get together that quickly. That’s not how relationships work.”

“We need to do this the smart way. The measured way. We need to be patient.”

She lifts her mug, taking a long drink of her coffee, like she’s giving herself time to analyze the problem. When she sets down her cup, her brows are knit, her words slow and serious, almost cautious. “Did we just agree to be friends?”

I look down at her hand, still joined with mine, and then let go. Friends don’t hold hands like they’re crazy for each other. Friends eat breakfast and go their separate ways. They don’t text each other later in the day, and they don’t ask when they’ll see each other again.

My heart pinches like a rope is tied around it, tightening it.

I don’t want to be just friends.

I don’t want to level down with Nadia Harlowe.

And I sure as shit don’t want to be less than lovers with her.