Novel Ships
Chapter 18
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.
“Okay,” I finally concede, my voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”
Jack’s smile widens, and he gently places his hand on the small of my back, guiding me out of the cafe. The warmth of his touch seeps through my damp shirt, any my mind becomes even foggier than it was when I started this day. I’m hyperaware of every step, every breath. The hangover, the guilt, and now this unexpected turn of events has my head spinning.
As we walk the short distance to Jack’s apartment, I’m acutely aware of the silence between us. It’s not uncomfortable, exactly, but it’s charged with an energy I can’t quite define. We reach an older, but clean and well-kept building, and Jack leads me inside, his hand still resting lightly on my back. The elevator ride is mercifully short, but it feels like an eternity as I stand there, coffee-stained and disheveled, next to Jack’s put-together presence.
Jack’s apartment is on the third floor, and as he unlocks the door, I find myself holding my breath. The space that greets me is surprisingly cozy—warm colors, well-worn leather furniture, and bookshelves lining one wall. It’s lived-in but tidy. It also has a live Christmas tree in the far right corner that is full of ornaments and topped with an angel. Christmas lights line the windows, and tinsel cover the tops of his kitchen cabinets. I immediately feel both comforted and surprised that a single man would go all out in Christmas decor.
“Make yourself at home,” Jack says, gesturing to the living room. “I’ll grab you that shirt.”
As he disappears down a hallway, I stand awkwardly in the middle of the room, afraid to touch anything. My stare roams over the bookshelves, taking in titles ranging from classic literature to modern thrillers. A framed photo catches my attention—Jack, younger and sun-kissed, arm slung around an older woman who bears a striking resemblance to him. Mother and son, I assume.
“Here we go,” Jack’s voice startles me out of my observations. He’s holding out a crisp white button-down. “It’s the smallest I’ve got, but it should do the trick.”
Our fingers brush as I take the shirt from him, looking around for what I had expected to be greeted with sloppy kisses and large paws. “Where’s your dog?”
He freezes with a look that almost appears to be confusion. “Dog?”
For a minute, I second guess my memory. But I clearly remember him walking his dog when we first met. Hung over or not—but wait. I thought he lived in my neighborhood.
“Oh, right,” Jack says, looking slightly flustered for the first time. “That wasn’t my dog. I house- and dog-sit for a friend in the crew sometimes.”
I nod slowly, trying to process this information through my hangover fog. Something about his explanation doesn’t quite sit right, but I can’t put my finger on why. Maybe it’s the lingering confusion from last night clouding my judgment.
“Oh I see. I just assumed,” I mumble, clutching the shirt to my chest. “Um, where can I . . . ?”
Jack points down the hallway. “Bathroom’s the second door on the left.”
I shuffle toward the bathroom, my mind racing. As I close the door behind me, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and wince. My makeup is smudged, my hair a tangled mess, and my blouse is a disaster. I look exactly how I feel—like I’ve been hit by a truck.
With shaky hands, I unbutton my ruined blouse and peel it off, tossing it into the sink. I splash some cold water on my face, trying to clear my head. I quickly put on Jack’s shirt, rolling up the sleeves and tying it at the waist. It smells like him.
Taking a deep breath, I step out of the bathroom. Jack is in the kitchen, pouring two mugs of coffee. He looks up as I enter, his eyes widening slightly.
“Wow,” he says, a smile playing on his lips. “You make that shirt look good.” He extends a mug of coffee to me. “I can’t make your latte, but this coffee does have creamer and sugar.”
Man, this guy really is perfect.
I take the mug gratefully, wrapping my hands around its warmth. “Thanks,” I say, taking a sip. The coffee is rich and smooth, infinitely better than what I usually make at home.
Jack leans against the counter, watching me over the rim of his own mug. There’s something in his gaze that makes me feel both exposed and intrigued. The silence stretches between us, thick with unspoken words.
“You clearly like Christmas,” I say, taking in more of his decorations. There is a Charles Dickens village set up on a side table, complete with tiny Victorian-era figurines and miniature snow-covered buildings.
“It was my mother’s favorite holiday.” Jack’s eyes soften at the mention of his mother. “Yeah, she always went all out for Christmas. The little village was her favorite.”
I nod, feeling a pang of sympathy. The photo I saw earlier flashes in my mind. “Is that her in the picture on your bookshelf?”
Jack’s smile turns bittersweet. “Yeah, that’s her. She passed away when I was fifteen.”C0pyright © 2024 Nôv)(elDrama.Org.
“I’m so sorry,” I say softly.
“The village was the one thing of hers that I managed to keep hold of after I went into the foster system. So, I guess you could say it’s important to show it off and make the place festive.”
“I’m sure she’s happy you are.”
He shrugs, takes in the decorations and says, “I hope so.”
I instinctively reach out to touch his arm, moved by his moment of vulnerability. The moment my fingers make contact with his skin, I feel a jolt of electricity. Jack’s eyes meet mine, and for a moment, the world seems to stand still.
I wait. And wait. And like the times before . . . nothing.
Yeah, I think it’s fair to say that we crossed into friend zone. And maybe that isn’t a bad thing. He’s as vanilla as the flavor of creamer he put in my coffee, and after last night with WinterWatcher . . . I’m clearly as black as the coal that I deserve in my stocking.
“I, um, I should probably get going,” I stammer, setting down the coffee mug. “I don’t want to keep Sloane waiting for long. Thank you for the shirt and the coffee.”
Jack nods, his expression unreadable. “Of course. Any time.”
I make my way to the door, feeling Jack’s eyes on me as I go. Just as I reach for the handle, his voice stops me.
“Chloe, wait.”
I turn, my heart suddenly racing. Jack takes a step toward me, his expression intense.
Come on, buddy. Throw me against the wall. Take me by the hair and plunge your tongue into my mouth. Do it! Do it!
Nothing.
“About that date of ours. True Crime and Chinese food. I work for the next forty-eight hours, but maybe when I’m off shift?”
My heart sinks a little. Hearing him ask it like that is the same way Sloane would ask me to hang out.
Yup, friend zone.
“Oh,” I say, trying to mask my disappointment. “Um, text me and we’ll figure it out. But I really should be going.”
Jack nods, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “Sure, no problem. I’ll text you.”
I hurry out of Jack’s apartment, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. As I step into the elevator, I lean against the wall, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath. The scent of Jack’s shirt lingers around me, a constant reminder of the confusing encounter I just had.
The elevator dings, and I step out onto the street, the chilly winter air shocking my system. I start walking briskly toward the office, trying to sort through my thoughts. On one hand, Jack was sweet and helpful, offering me his shirt and coffee when I was in a bind. But on the other hand, there was that moment—or rather, the lack of a moment—when we were so close, and nothing happened.
I can’t shake the feeling that something’s off. The dog explanation, the lack of chemistry . . . it all feels strange. I didn’t even know he lived in Manhattan. He was only housesitting there?
As I round the corner toward Moth to the Flame, ready to get my jewelry, head home, crawl in bed to erase this day completely, my phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s a notification from Dark Secrets. I turned them on last night just in case. Just in case—
“Last night was fun. Maybe we can do it again sometime?—WinterWatcher.”