Chapter 1: The Drunk Call
The buzzing was a gnat in the ear of her dream. A persistent, angry whine that drilled through the layers of a precious, bone-deep sleep. Nathalie groaned, her face buried in the cool silk of her pillow. The phone on her sleek nightstand buzzed again, skittering toward the edge with a violent tremble. The single candle had burned to a puddle of wax hours ago.
She fumbled, her hand slapping the smooth surface until her fingers closed around the offending device. The screen burned her retinas.
Chad. 2:47 AM.
“You have got to be kidding me,” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. She swiped to decline and let the phone fall back onto the bed. It was instantly engulfed by the duvet.
Three seconds later, it buzzed again.
A long, suffering sigh escaped her. She hauled it back up, squinting as she answered. “This better be you calling from a jail cell requiring one phone call, because any other reason is invalid.”
His laugh was a low, slurry rumble down the line. “Nathalie Emmanuel. My favorite person in the whole world.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Astute. Brilliant. This is why you’re the actress.” She heard the distinct shuffle of feet on pavement, the distant wail of a siren. He was outside somewhere. “Had a minor setback. At the club.”
“Let me guess. She said no.”
“She said… a lot of things. None of them yes. It was a whole theatrical rejection. I think I might have applauded.”
Nathalie closed her eyes, her body screaming for the oblivion of the mattress. “Chad, I love you, you know I do. But I was on set for fourteen hours today. I was buried in fake snow and screamed at by a man in a motion-capture suit. My brain is oatmeal. Can I please go back to sleep?”
“Absolutely. One hundred percent. Just… open your door first.”
Her eyes snapped open. “What?”
“Your door. The big, shiny one in your fancy building. I’m downstairs.”
She sat up, the silk sheets pooling at her waist. The twinkling grid of the LA skyline through her floor-to-ceiling windows suddenly felt exposing. “You are not downstairs.”
“The intercom system is very sleek. Very you. Now come on, Nat. Buzz me up. I’m your backup plan.”
The audacity was so colossal it briefly short-circuited her fatigue. “Your backup plan? Are you actually for real right now? You get shot down by some random and your pathetic, drunken pivot is to wake me up?”
“You’re not pathetic. You’re my best friend.”
“I am asleep.”
“You were. Now you’re talking to me. Progress.” His tone shifted, the bravado softening at the edges. “Come on. I’ll make you that weird tea with the honey you like. I won’t talk. I’ll just… be tragically handsome in the corner of your very expensive sofa.”
She hated that it made her smile. Just a little. She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her palm. The silence stretched, filled with the staticky sound of his waiting breath.
“This is a terrible idea,” she said, but she was already swinging her legs out of bed.
“All the best ones are.”
She hung up, pulled on a robe that felt like a cloud against her skin, and padded barefoot to the intercom. Her finger hovered over the button. A wave of pure, unadulterated irritation washed over her. She was a professional. She had a 6 AM call time. This was idiotic.
She pressed it.
“You’re a menace,” she said into the speaker.
“I know,” his voice crackled back, ripe with victory.
Minutes later, the chime sounded at her apartment door. She opened it, one hand on her hip, every line of her body broadcasting exasperation.
He filled the doorway. Tall, always so tall, with that disheveled blond hair and a grin that had disarmed far too many people. He smelled of night air, expensive bourbon, and a faint, clean cologne. His jacket was slung over one shoulder, his white shirt untucked and open at the collar.
“Hi,” he said, the word a little too careful.
“You look like hell.”
“You look… alarmingly good for someone who was just dead to the world.”
It was true, and he was the only person who could say it without it feeling like a line. She wore no makeup, her hair was a wild cascade down her back, and the robe covered everything. He still looked at her like she’d just stepped onto a red carpet.
She stepped back, a silent invitation. He walked in, his presence immediately expanding to fill the minimalist space. He headed straight for her kitchen, familiar with the place. She heard the click of the kettle, the shuffle of cabinets.
She leaned against the kitchen entrance, arms crossed. “So. The rejection. Was it brutal?”
“Educational,” he called out. She heard the rattle of a spoon in a mug. “I’m reevaluating my entire approach. Starting tomorrow.”
“Uh-huh.”
He emerged, holding two mugs. He handed her one. The tea was perfect, the honey glinting amber under the low lights. He’d remembered.
He didn’t go to the sofa. He stood close, looking down at her. The confident smirk was gone. In its place was something more open, more tired. The drunk arrogance had faded, leaving just Chad, a little lost at 3 AM.
“Thanks,” he said, his voice quiet. “For letting me in.”
“You’re lucky I’m too tired to throw you out.”
He smiled then, a real one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. He took a sip of his tea, made a face. “This is revolting. How do you drink this?”
“It’s calming.”
“I don’t want to be calm.” He set the mug down on a side table with a decisive click. The sound was loud in the quiet apartment.
His gaze traveled over her face, down the line of her throat, over the velvet tie of her robe. The air shifted. It grew thicker, charged with a tension that had always simmered under the surface of their friendship, carefully ignored for years.
He stepped closer. She didn’t move.
“This was a bad idea, Nat,” he murmured, but he was still moving into her space.
“The worst.”
His hand came up, not to touch her, but to gesture vaguely, a helpless little motion. “I should go.”
“You should.”
He didn’t go. He looked at her mouth. The fatigue in her mind began to mutate, melting into a different kind of haze. The robe felt suddenly too thin. She was aware of every point where the silk touched her skin.
His confidence, usually so loud, was a quiet thrum now. A question.
“I came here because I wanted to see you,” he said, the admission stark and simple.
“As your backup plan.”
“As my only plan.”
He closed the final inch between them. His body heat reached her first. Then his hand, finally touching, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. The calluses on his fingertips were a rough contrast to everything soft in the room.
She let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. This was the line. The one they’d drawn in the sand years ago and had meticulously avoided.
His other hand came to rest on her waist, a firm, sure weight through the velvet. He was waiting. Giving her the final say.
Every rational cell in her brain was shrieking. It was Chad. Trust fund Chad. Fuckboy Chad. Her friend Chad. The man who showed up at her door drunk and rejected at 3 AM.
But he was also here. Real and solid and looking at her like she was the only answer to a question he’d just remembered.
She saw the moment he sensed her capitulation. A flicker in his ocean-blue eyes. His thumb stroked a slow arc on her waist.
“Tell me to leave,” he whispered, his voice rough.
She didn’t.
She lifted her chin. It was all the permission he needed.
His mouth was on hers, and it wasn’t gentle. It was claiming, hungry, a direct conduit for all his frustrating, arrogant, persistent energy. The taste of bourbon and that useless tea mixed on her tongue. One of his hands tangled in her hair, the other pulling her firmly against him.
And there it was. The hard, unmistakable proof of his desire pressing against her through the soft denim of his jeans. It was frankly obscene. A blatant, physical fact that short-circuited the last of her weakening resolve. A startled gasp escaped her, swallowed by his kiss.