Chapter 8: The Unbuttoning
The coffee was scalding. For a second, the shock of the heat against her skin was all Dee could process, a sharp, clarifying pain that cut through the heavy silence left by their promises. She’d backed into the side table on her way to the door, sending the half-full mug flying. Its contents hit the exact center of her cream silk blouse with a wet slap.
“Shit,” she gasped, clutching at the fabric where it clung, instantly translucent and burning.
Matt moved before the ceramic finished rolling across the floor. He was in the kitchenette of his seaside living room and back with a damp cloth in three long strides. “Here.”
He didn’t hand it to her. He moved in close, his focus absolute, and began dabbing at the stain. The cloth was cool, but through the soaked silk, the heat of her skin was immediate. His knuckles, firm and careful, brushed against the upper swell of her breast.
A full-body shiver racked her, unrelated to the burn.
He froze. “Sorry,” he muttered, the word gruff. But his hand didn’t retreat. It hovered, the cloth dripping onto the floor between them. He was looking at the stain, at the way the ruined fabric outlined her, his expression one of intense, fraught concentration.
“You need to get this off,” he said, his voice low and sandpaper-rough. “Before it really burns you.”
Logic swam through the haze of adrenaline and something else, something far more dangerous. She nodded, her fingers moving to the top button of her blouse. But the delicate pearl slipped in her grasp. Her hands, usually so steady, were shaking.
Matt watched the futile struggle, his jaw tightening. A silent war played out in his eyes. Then, with a resolve that seemed to cost him, he reached out and gently brushed her fingers aside.
“Let me.”
Her breath hitched. He didn’t wait for permission he must have seen in her wider eyes. His own hands, those famously steady actor’s hands, were not entirely steady now. He found the first button.
The world contracted to the space between them, to the slow, deliberate journey of his fingers. The sound of each button slipping free was a tiny, significant report in the quiet room. Pop. Pop. Pop. His knuckles traced a line down her sternum, a featherlight torture through the wet silk. He was meticulous, his eyes locked on hers, as if asking a question with each inch of skin revealed. The ocean roared its endless monologue below the cliff, but it was just white noise. All she could hear was the ragged concert of their breathing, a duet growing more unsteady.
The last button gave way.
The blouse fell open, parting like a stage curtain. The lace edge of her bra, a practical dove grey, was exposed. The coffee stain darkened the silk above it, a stark, messy contrast to the delicate fabric beneath. The air in the room kissed her damp skin, raising goosebumps.
He didn’t move. He just looked, his gaze dropping for a heartbeat to the revealed skin, the rapid flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat, before returning to her eyes. The cloth hung forgotten in his hand.
“Better?” The word was a scrape.
She managed another nod, unable to speak. The vulnerability was absolute, but it wasn’t cold. It was electric. It was the red pen promise, made flesh.
Slowly, he lifted the cloth again, not to the blouse, but to the skin just above the lace. He dabbed, a gentle, cleansing gesture, wiping away the sticky residue from her collarbone. The cool linen followed the path his knuckles had taken. Her eyes fluttered shut for a second.
“It’s going to leave a mark,” she whispered, finally finding her voice. She wasn’t talking about the coffee.
“I know.”
He dropped the cloth to the floor. His hands, now empty, came to rest lightly on her bare shoulders, his thumbs slotting into the hollows above her clavicle. His touch was warm, anchoring. “Tell me to stop, Dee.”
She opened her eyes. The want was a live wire between them, humming with the memory of an elevator and a shared, furious secret. But the fear was there, too—of her father, of Pryce, of torching the careful world they’d built.
“I can’t,” she said, the truth of it aching. “I can’t tell you that.”
A groan escaped him, part defeat, part triumph. He leaned his forehead against hers, their noses brushing. His breath was warm on her lips. “Your dad will skin me alive.”
A shaky, almost-laugh escaped her. “Probably.”
“Pryce would get a front-row seat.”
The name was a bucket of cold water. She stiffened, and his hands squeezed her shoulders, not in restraint, but in shared solidarity.
“Forget him,” Matt murmured, his lips moving against her temple. “For one minute. Just… forget everything that isn’t this room.”
He pulled back just enough to look at her, his blue eyes dark with a stormy intensity she had only ever seen him play at on screen. This was no performance. This was the man beneath the persona, the loyal friend who was tired of standing on the wrong side of a line he never agreed to.
He didn’t kiss her.
Instead, he slid his hands down her arms, pushing the sodden blouse from her shoulders. It slid down with a whisper, catching at her elbows before he gently tugged it free and let it fall. It landed on the cloth with a soft, final sound.
She stood before him in her bra and skirt, the ocean light painting her in shades of gold and grey. She felt exposed, but not shy. Seen.
He traced the strap of her bra with a single finger, a slow, thoughtful journey from shoulder to the gentle curve at the top of her breast. “I’ve imagined this,” he admitted, his voice raw. “A thousand times. But the version in my head never had coffee stains or… or fear in it.”
“This is better,” she said, surprising herself. “It’s real.”
That broke him. With a tenderness that devastated her, he cradled her face in his hands and finally, finally brought his mouth to hers.
It wasn’t a hesitant exploration. It was a claiming, a confirmation. A dialogue that picked up right where the elevator left off, but without panic, with only a desperate, hungry certainty. Her hands came up to fists in the soft cotton of his shirt, pulling him closer. He tasted of the peppermint tea he’d been drinking and something uniquely, essentially him. The world outside—the deals, the threats, the paternal decrees—did not simply fade. It was incinerated in the heat.
When they broke apart, breathless, his forehead rested against hers again.
“Stay,” he said. It wasn’t a question. It was a plea wrapped in a demand.
Her practical mind, the distributor, the coordinator, scrambled for a reason to leave. She found none. There was only the feel of his hands on her bare skin, the promise of the low-slung couch, the roaring hush of the Pacific.
“I have a 9 a.m. with Legal,” she said, her voice muffled against his neck.
“So do I.” He smiled, a real one, curving against her skin. “We’ll be tired. We’ll be professional. We’ll blame the traffic.”
He kissed her again, softer this time, a prelude. Then he bent, sliding one arm behind her knees, the other around her back, and lifted her easily. She let out a small, surprised sound, wrapping her arms around his neck.
“Matt—”
“Shhh.” He carried her the few steps to the couch, the one that faced the endless water. He didn’t lay her down. He sat first, settling her across his lap, her legs over his, her head tucked into the space between his shoulder and jaw. He pulled a soft cashmere throw from the back of the couch and draped it over her, covering her from waist to shoulders. “See? Professional. We’re just talking.”
She snorted, relaxing into him, the solid reality of his chest under her cheek. The weight of the last week, the lingering ghost of Pryce’s grip, the constant pressure of her father’s expectations—it all began to leak away, drained by the simple act of being held. He stroked her hair, his fingers combing through the strands with a rhythmic, soothing patience.
They watched the waves, a silent, shifting tapestry of blues and greys. The pen in his pocket pressed lightly against her arm through the blanket.
“I meant what I said,” he murmured after a long while. His voice was a vibration in his chest. “You tell me. About everything.”
“I will,” she promised, and for the first time, she believed she could. The secret was no longer just a shame to carry; it was a load to share.
The secret was no longer just a shame to carry; it was a load to share. The truth of that, the terrifying relief, settled into her bones as she watched a container ship crawl along the horizon. The comfortable silence stretched, filled only by the ocean and the steady beat of his heart under her ear.
Then a practical, mundane thought surfaced through the emotional haze. The cashmere throw was soft, but the cool air from the windows played over her bare shoulders and back. She was still sitting in his lap wearing only a skirt and her bra. The vulnerability shifted from profound to slightly ridiculous.
She shifted, clearing her throat. “Do you maybe want to lend me a T-shirt?” she asked, her voice muffled against his collarbone. “Talking half-naked feels awkward.”
Matt’s chest shook with a silent laugh. He leaned his head back to look at her, his eyes crinkling. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Sorry, I was… distracted.”
He helped her stand, the blanket falling in a heap. She crossed her arms over her chest, not from modesty but from the sudden chill. He moved toward a hallway, his own jeans and shirt looking rumpled now, a testament to the chaos of the last hour.
“It’ll be big,” he called from what she assumed was his bedroom.
“I’m counting on it.”
He returned holding a simple heather-grey shirt, the fabric worn soft. He handed it to her, his fingers brushing hers. “No logos. Very professional.”
She turned it right-side out and pulled it over her head. The cotton smelled like him—laundry soap and that faint, clean scent that was just his skin. It swallowed her, the hem hitting her mid-thigh, the neckline gaping off one shoulder. She rolled the sleeves twice.
“See?” she said, smoothing the fabric down. “Now we can negotiate properly.”
He just stared, a weird, soft look on his face. “You look better in it than I do.”
“Flattery will get you a better deal on your backend points.” She settled back onto the couch, curling her legs under her, now fully covered in the uniform of his private life. The act of wearing his clothes felt more intimate than the kiss. It was a temporary belonging.
He sat beside her, closer than before, and hooked a finger in the loose collar of the shirt, tugging it gently to expose the red mark the coffee had left on her skin. “We should put some cream on that.”
“Later.”
He nodded, letting the collar fall back. His hand stayed, resting on the shirt, over her heart. “So. Talk.”
She took a deep breath, the cotton rising and falling under his palm. She started with Germany, with the distance that had finally allowed her to see the patterns clearly. She told him about the calls from Pryce that had started as friendly check-ins from her father’s partner, then evolved into something clinging and proprietary. The “advice” that felt like commands. The way he’d find reasons to touch her arm, her back, the small of her back.
“The day I left,” she said, her gaze fixed on the darkening ocean, “he was in the office. My dad was already in the car. Pryce cornered me by the elevator, said he’d miss his ‘favorite source of sane conversation in this circus.’ He went for a hug. It wasn’t a hug. It was… a claiming. Hands everywhere. I shoved him off. I told him to never touch me again.” She finally looked at Matt. “That’s what you walked in on. An echo.”
Matt’s expression had gone still, a carefully neutral mask she recognized from his most dangerous film roles. Only the muscle ticking in his jaw betrayed him. “And Simon?”
“Doesn’t see it. Pryce is the numbers guy, the stable force. He’s blind to it.”
“I’m not.” The three words were a vow. His thumb began to move, a slow, soothing arc over the cotton. “The red pen promise. It stands. You point, and I act.”
The simplicity of it undid her. A single hot tear escaped, tracking quickly down her cheek. He caught it with his thumb.
“The shirt’s gonna get wet,” she joked weakly.
“It’s been through worse.” He leaned in, his lips finding the damp trail on her cheek, then the corner of her mouth. This kiss was different. It was a seal. A quiet, furious agreement. When he pulled back, his eyes were blazing. “You stay here tonight.”
It wasn’t a question this time, either. She just nodded.
He stood, offering his hand. “Come on. I’m making you an omelet. Professional colleagues eat omelets.”
She took his hand, letting him pull her up. “Do they also borrow their colleague’s toothbrush?”
“They do in Chapter Eight,” he said, and led her toward the kitchen, the ghost of Pryce dissolving in the warm, ordinary light.