She huffed. Perhaps she would have been better walking. ‘I don’t need to put any distance between us because we agreed that it would be a one-night-only thing. Then we’d pretend it had never happened.’
‘Gee, that sounds healthy.’ Willa rolled her eyes.
‘Why not? It’s just sex—nothing more.’ I don’t need any more, and I don’t need him.
‘If it was just sex then why do you need to pretend it didn’t happen?’
As much as she hated to admit it, Willa had a point. What was so bad about admitting that she’d had a one-night stand with Brodie?
Even thinking the words set a hard lump in her stomach. She’d been down this path before—men always started out fun, till the over-protectiveness stirred, control followed, and smothering wasn’t far behind.
‘Well, we don’t want to upset Scott…’
‘That’s not it. Scott is totally head over heels for Kate. She’s it for him. So I can guarantee he wouldn’t care about you and Brodie hooking up.’
Why did she feel so funny about it? Perhaps admitting it aloud meant it was real, and if it was real then it might happen again.
It’s a slippery slope to disaster—remember that.
‘Eight years is a long time to harbour feelings for someone. No wonder you’re scared.’
‘I’m not scared.’ Chantal’s lips pursed. ‘And I have most certainly not been harbouring feelings for Brodie Mitchell for the last eight years.’
‘I think the lady doth protest too much.’ Willa stole a quick glance at Chantal, her amusement barely contained in a cheeky smile. ‘You know, it is okay for you to like people—even annoyingly handsome men like Brodie.’
‘I don’t like him. I only wanted his body.’ Her lip twitched.
Feelings for his body were a little easier to deal with than the possibility of feelings for him as a person. She had to shut this down right now. She did not have feelings for Brodie and she most certainly didn’t want to start something permanent with him. It was a simple case of primitive, animalistic need. Relationships were not something on her horizon.
But no one had said anything about relationships, had they? Crap, why did it have to be so damn confusing? Head space came at a premium, and she could not afford to waste any spare energy on men, no matter how incredible their hands or mouth were.
‘Uh, Chantal? I asked you a question.’
‘Did you?’ Great—now she’d lost her ability to even sustain basic conversation.
‘Yes, I asked if you’d heard back after your audition.’
Sore point number two. ‘Not yet. But it was only yesterday. They could take a little while to get back to me.’
‘Do you think it went well?’
‘Who the hell knows?’ She sighed, rubbing her hands over her eyes. ‘I can’t tell any more.’
‘I’m sure you’ll land on your feet.’ Willa reached over and squeezed her hand.
For a moment Chantal was terrified that she might cry. She hadn’t allowed herself to shed any tears over her marriage or her failing career, and she didn’t plan on opening the floodgates now. All that emotion was packed down tight. There would be time to cry when she’d secured herself a position with a dance company. For the time being tears were a waste of time and energy.
Thankfully Chantal was able to steer Willa to a safer topic. She was all too happy to talk about how things were going with Rob. Other people’s lives were preferable talking points over the tricky, icky state of her career and her unwanted feelings towards Brodie.
Willa dropped Chantal off at the bar’s parking lot, and she was almost surprised to find her car was still there. It was too crappy to steal, apparently.
Hitching her overnight bag higher on her shoulder, Chantal made her way around the back of the bar to the staff accommodation. She needed a hot shower, a cup of coffee and a lie down before she even attempted to get herself ready for another night of humiliation.
Her unit was number four. The metal number hung upside down on the door, one of its nails having rusted and fallen out. Holding her breath, she shoved the key into the lock and turned. The room didn’t smell quite as bad as the bar, but the stale air still made her recoil as she entered the room.
‘Home sweet home,’ she muttered, dumping her bag onto the bed. ‘Not.’
The small room was almost entirely filled with an ancient-looking double bed covered in a faded floral quilt. A light flickered overhead, casting an eerie yellow glow over walls that were badly in need of a new paint job. A crack stretched down one wall, partially covered by a photo frame containing a generic scenery print. It was probably the picture that had come with the frame.
A quick peek at the bathroom revealed chipped blue tiles, a shower adorned with a torn plastic curtain and a sink that looked as though it needed a hardcore bleach application.
Chantal dropped down onto the bed and checked her phone. Nothing. What was she expecting? Brodie to be calling? Asking her to come back?
Something dark scuttled across the floor by her feet. Chantal drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs.
She would not cry. She would not cry.
Brodie woke to the sound of his phone vibrating against the nightstand. He stretched, palm smoothing over the space next to him in the bed. The empty space.
Grinding a fist into his eyes, he forced the fogginess away. What time was it? He groped for his phone, fumbling with the passcode. It was a text from Scott.
Bro, I thought we were going for a run? Where are you?
Run? It was three o’clock in the afternoon. Crap, how had that happened?
Sorry, got caught up. Will have to reschedule.
The bed sheets were tangled around his legs and he caught a brief flash of Chantal’s ocean-coloured dress peeking out from underneath his jeans in the corner of the room—a sure sign that the lavish images of losing himself in her body over and over weren’t from a dream.
His phone immediately pinged with a new message.
Got caught up with what? Or should I say who?
Ugh. Where was Chantal? His feet hit the ground, thighs protesting as he stood. Yep, that was a sign of one hell of a night. He stretched, forcing his arms up overhead and pressing against the tightness in his muscles. Damn, he felt good.
He poked his head into the en-suite bathroom. No Chantal there. Padding out to the kitchen, he typed a message back to Scott.
No comment.
She wasn’t in the kitchen either. Why hadn’t she woken him? He wandered out onto the deck to see if she was doing any of her yoga stuff. Nope, nothing there either.
He raked a hand through his hair, coming back to the kitchen and flicking the coffee machine on. It whirred, grinding beans and then flooding the room with its delicious, fresh-brewed coffee scent.
Weak. Not that it takes a genius to figure it out…
Scott had a point. It had been bound to happen between him and Chantal. Their tension had been through the roof back then, and eight years hadn’t dampened it at all. It had been a special kind of torture having Chantal back in his life… even if only for a short period of time.
Last night had been easily the best night of his life. But only because she was insanely hot and did things with her mouth that would make the most experienced of men blush. It was a conquest thing—a very long-awaited notch on his belt.