I don’t come this time. Our motion is too slow and soft, but nothing has ever felt better than being with Nate like this, touching him, stroking him, kissing him, giving myself to him completely, knowing he’s loving me with everything that’s in him to love.
It feels real this time—more real than it did last night.
I wrap my legs around him as his motion finally speeds up, becoming jerky and uneven. He’s panting against my neck as I feel his body tighten deliciously and then feel the tension release in waves that make him moan.
We hug each other for a long time afterward, and the last of my doubts fades away.
When he finally rolls off me, I’m smiling.
He slants me a questioningly look. “What?” he asks.
I shake my head, unable to stop smiling.
“You’re making me self-conscious now.”
“Good,” I say, giving him a soft, playful swat on the chest. “Now you know how I felt earlier.” After a moment then, I admit, “I’m just happy.”
He smiles then too, warmth and joy and understanding palpable in his eyes. “I’m glad to hear it. I plan to keep making you happy—for as long as you’ll let me.”
A shiver of delight overwhelms me, but I manage to say in an impressively dry voice, “But I don’t want you to think we’ll be spending the day in bed together.”
He arches his eyebrows. “We won’t?”
“No. We only have a few more days here, and we’ve got a lot to see. So today we’ll need to go to Chawton to see all the Jane Austen stuff there, and tomorrow we’ll go to Bath.”
He laughs, low and warm. “Sounds like a plan. But maybe you’ll let me change our reservations in Haworth and take one room instead of two.”
I think about this for a moment, the hesitation entirely for show. “I guess that would be all right—although I don’t know if the Janes would approve of such scandalous behavior.”
He pulls me into his arms again and says against my lips, “As long as this Jane approves, then I can live with it.”
“But this whole trip was about chasing the Janes.”
“Well, I chased my Jane. And I caught her.”
He didn’t really chase me. We both just stumbled along together until we landed in the same bed.
But I figure this isn’t the time to be literal about such things.
LATER THAT DAY, AFTER visiting the Jane Austen house and sites in the village of Chawton, we end up at The Vyne, a gorgeous, sixteenth-century country house and estate where Jane Austen went to dances.
I’m having one of the best days of my life, as all the tangled pieces of my life come together with that perfect unity that only occurs occasionally. After we tour the house, we walk around the grounds, and I gush over the gardens and the ornamental lake.
Nate might not care as much about Jane Austen as I do, but I know he’s having a good time too.
My mom would have loved to be here, but she always adored Nate, and I know she would be happy that we’ve finally gotten together this way.
It’s getting late in the day when I stare at the beautifully kept grounds and impressive historic house. “I feel like I’m Elizabeth Bennet at Pemberley, when she first starts to see Mr. Darcy differently.”
Nate is holding my hand, and he squeezes it lightly, even as he gives me an exaggerated frown. “I hope you’re not going to compare me to Darcy.”
I laugh softly and stretch up to kiss him on the jaw. “I thought you wanted me to see you as a hero.”
“I guess. But can we find someone a little more appropriate than him?”
“Captain Wentworth?”
“God, no.”
I try to smother a giggle. “Mr. Knightley?”
He makes a face. “I guess that’s a little better.”
I wrap my arms around his neck. “How about... Rochester?”
He smiles and kisses me. “That will have to do.”
AND THAT’S REALLY ABOUT all there is to say about me and Nate and the long-awaited Jane journey. Except one last thing, mostly because they’re words I’ve always wanted to write.
Reader, I married him.
But that’s another story.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: If you enjoyed these two stories, you might enjoy another one of my friends-to-lovers novellas, Date for Hire, which will be coming out soon. An excerpt can be found on the following pages.
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Excerpt from Date for Hire
A FEW HOURS LATER, Mike and I get out of a taxi in front of the Manhattan hotel where we’ll be staying for the weekend.
My stomach is churning with discomfort after the flight, airport, and long cab ride, and I vaguely wonder—as I always do whenever I visit this city—why I do this to myself.
I could have said no to this trip, but I didn’t.
When I see Mike giving me a sidelong look, I force a smile.
“You all right?” he asks, obviously not convinced by my attempt at nonchalance. He puts a hand on my back as he guides me into the chaotic ground floor of the hotel.
“I’m fine.”
He doesn’t argue, but he also doesn’t believe me. There’s concern on his face as we head upstairs to the check-in desk, which requires maneuvering through random crowds of people whose only purpose seems to be getting in our way.
There’s a line to check in. Of course there is. There are way too many people in this one space, and it’s making me tense. As always, I try to hide it, keeping my eyes down and breathing deeply.
We stand in silence in the line for just over a minute, Mike’s lean body only inches from mine. He’s wearing khakis and an untucked green-and-brown-checked shirt. Just slightly wrinkled, as all his shirts seem to be.
He leans in and mutters against my ear, “Tell me what the hell is wrong with you right now.”
I blink at the gruff authority of his soft voice. “Nothing,” I begin. Then I see his expression and add quickly, “It’s really nothing big. I just don’t... don’t like New York.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too many people. Too many buildings. All crammed together. It makes me... anxious.”
His eyebrows lift. “Really? Atlanta is a pretty big city. It doesn’t make you anxious?”
“Not like New York does. Particularly Manhattan. It’s just too much, all squeezed together on a little island. I feel trapped here. Like the buildings are closing in on me. Like I can’t get away. Like the whole thing is swallowing me up. It’s not a major phobia or anything. It just makes me... anxious.”
The line is moving. Mike steps closer to me, putting his hand again on my back. This time he leaves it there, his palm pressing gently just between my shoulder blades. It’s strangely comforting. It lessens the churning of my stomach. “Why didn’t I know that about you?”
I sniff. “Why would you?”
“I don’t know. We’ve known each other for three years. I thought we were...” He clears his throat. “Aren’t we friends?”
“Yes! Yes, I think so.” Because I’m suddenly worried that he’s hurt, I start to ramble, which is something I rarely let myself do. “I just don’t tell anyone. I don’t know why. All kinds of things make me anxious, but I don’t tell anyone about them except Weston. It just feels like... I always try to put on this front of having it all together. Like when I was a girl on the flight and couldn’t admit I was scared about it. I’ve done it all my life. And now I... I don’t know how to be anything else.”
He meets my worried eyes. His are thoughtful. Terrifyingly observant. Like he might be able to see past the composure I’ve cultivated for so long—maybe as far down as my soul. “Well, it’s worked,” he murmurs at l
ast.
“What’s worked?” So maybe my mind is spinning from the look in his eyes. I’m not thinking as clearly as I should.
“Your act. The way you pretend to always have it together and be completely in control. I was... I was fooled.”
“You were?”
“Yeah. And I’ve got to say it was damned intimidating.”
“What?” (Definitely not thinking at full capacity here.)
“It’s intimidating. Believing you were really like that. Like you didn’t really need...”
His trailing off is incredibly frustrating since I’m leaning into what he’s saying, but I don’t get a chance to prompt him to continue because a clerk calls us up to check in.
Our rooms are next to each other, and they’re exactly the same. King-size bed with white coverlet. Walk-in shower. Expansive view. I’m surprised when, after we identify whose room is whose, Mike follows me into mine.
My eyes widen, and I stop myself from blurting out a confused question about what he wants.
“So what’s your plan?” he asks, his eyes surveying the clean, polished furnishings.
“What plan?”
“What do you want to happen this evening?”
I gulp. Is he asking this for real? There’s no way I’ll be able to admit what I really want to happen this weekend—that Mike would fall deeply, miraculously in love with me. “W-what?”
He gives a soft huff of amusement and cocks his head. “I know we have the brunch tomorrow and then we fly home. But do you want me to make myself scarce for the rest of today? I’m happy to do that, if you want to do your own thing. Or did you want to...” He makes a weird throaty noise and drops his eyes. “...to hang out with me or what?”
I suddenly understand what he’s asking. My heart gives a ridiculous gallop at how adorably self-conscious he looks. “Oh. I see. Well, the truth is I don’t have any plans. But all you need to do with me is the brunch tomorrow, so you don’t have to keep me company today unless you...” My cheeks warm.
He laughs for real—low and warm and husky. “Okay. I think I’ve got it. So let me lay it out for you. I’ve got nothing to do here this evening. If you want to be alone or spend time with other people, I’ll be perfectly happy to hang out in my room. But otherwise consider me available for anything you might want.”
His tone shifts at the end of his last sentence. I’m sure it’s not intentional on his part, but the timbre becomes just slightly gravelly. Incredibly sensual. It makes my skin flush and a pressure tighten between my legs.
Because there’s one thing I definitely want that he can provide.
YOU CAN FIND OUT MORE about Date for Hire here.
About Noelle Adams
NOELLE HANDWROTE HER first romance novel in a spiral-bound notebook when she was twelve, and she hasn’t stopped writing since. She has lived in eight different states and currently resides in Virginia, where she writes full time, reads any book she can get her hands on, and offers tribute to a very spoiled cocker spaniel.
She loves travel, art, history, and ice cream. After spending far too many years of her life in graduate school, she has decided to reorient her priorities and focus on writing contemporary romances. For more information, please check out her website: noelle-adams.com.
Just Friends: Two Friends-to-Lovers Stories Page 13