Terms & Conditions | Chapter Three

Waking up in your enemy’s bed is one thing.

Waking up with his arm around you, his body pressed against yours, and absolutely no desire to leave?

That might be a problem.

Welcome back to Terms & Conditions Apply. Clara and Noah’s cold war is officially starting to look a lot less cold.

Chapter Three

Clara

Sunlight is streaming through the large windows when I finally blink my eyes open, slicing golden lines across the wide-plank hardwood floor.

For a disoriented second, I have no idea where I am.

The ceiling isn’t the flat white paint of my own bedroom with its simple flush-mount fixture. It’s a smooth expanse outfitted with sleek, modern track lighting. The walls are a sophisticated, muted charcoal instead of my neutral beige, framing a low-profile designer sofa and a minimalist walnut coffee table.

The scent under my nose isn't stale espresso and burnt toast, but clean sandalwood, fresh linen, and something undeniably, richly male.

And then I realize I am completely trapped.

Noah’s arm is slung heavy and possessive right across my waist, pinning me to his side like I’m a piece of rare contraband he has no intention of surrendering. His breathing is slow and steady against the back of my neck, warm puffs of air brushing against my skin with every rise and fall of his chest.

He is completely dead to the world, yet somehow his body remains coiled and hyper-aware.

When I try to inch away, sliding a fraction of an inch to the left to slip out from under his weight, it’s an immediate mistake.

His arm shifts, pressing me flush against him, and I instantly feel the hard, undeniable length of his cock digging into the small of my back.

Before I can even catch my breath, a low, gravelly rumble vibrates straight from his chest against me, half chuckle, half warning.

His hand drifts lazily down my hip, his thumb pressing a slow, deliberate circle into my stomach before he murmurs right against my ear.

"Ignore it, Miller. You're the one wriggling against me."

His arm tightens when I try to move again.

"And where do you think you're slithering off to?"

His voice is thick with sleep, rough around the edges and entirely too smug for eight in the morning.

"I have a life, Noah. A career. A deadline you attempted to brutally murder last night, remember?" I whisper back, trying to pry his fingers away from my hip, though my heart is betraying me by hammering a frantic little rhythm against my ribs.

"Your deadline is a social construct," he mutters, finally cracking one dark eye open to glare at the blinding sunlight before burying his face back into the crook of my neck.

His stubble scrapes lightly against my skin, sending a warm, electric shiver straight down my spine.

"Stay still. It’s Saturday."

"It's actually Friday. Wait."

I freeze, my brain suddenly screeching to a halt.

"No. Last night was Friday."

"Excellent work," he murmurs against my neck.

I elbow him lightly.

"So it is Saturday."

"That's usually what comes after Friday."

"Don't be an asshole. I just woke up."

"I noticed."

His mouth moves against my skin as he speaks, and I can practically feel his smirk.

"Which means Sarah isn't checking her emails, your publishing house is a ghost town, and you have two full days before anyone expects that manuscript."

"You sound disturbingly pleased about that."

"I am disturbingly pleased about a lot of things this morning."

His hips shift almost imperceptibly behind me.

My entire body goes hot.

"Noah."

"What?" he asks innocently.

I twist around in his arms so I'm glaring down at him, my hair a wild bird's nest around my face.

Noah finally opens both eyes, blinking lazily up at me with a slow, devastating grin stretching across his face.

He looks completely unbothered, his dark hair tousled from sleep, his broad chest entirely bare and glistening faintly in the morning light.

"You kidnapped me," I accuse.

"I rescued you," he corrects, his hand sliding up my spine to tangle gently in my hair, keeping me right where he wants me. "There’s a difference."

"I crossed the hallway voluntarily."

"Details."

"You can't claim to have rescued someone who walked willingly into your apartment."

"Sure I can. You were suffering from acute manuscript-induced insanity."

"That's not a medical condition."

"It should be."

I narrow my eyes at him.

His grin only widens.

"Besides," he says, "I ordered delivery about an hour ago. The driver should be buzzing the intercom any second now."

"You ordered food," I repeat flatly. "You, the man who spent a year waging psychological warfare against me over a shared hallway, are now ordering me food."

"I told you last night, Miller. Hostile takeover."

He traces a slow, lazy circle down the bridge of my nose with his thumb.

"Turns out, feeding you and keeping you away from your keyboard makes you a lot less likely to try to poison my coffee."

"Who says I stopped?" I shoot back, though my lips twitch upward in spite of myself.

Before he can answer, a sharp electronic chime rings out from somewhere near the entryway.

Noah groans, dropping his head back against the pillows with an expression of profound annoyance.

"That will be the delivery," he mutters, reluctantly dropping his arm and rolling out of bed.

I watch, entirely against my better judgment, as he stands up.

He pulls on a pair of gray sweatpants that ride low on his hips, the fabric catching on the V-line of his waist, and stretches his arms over his head. The muscles across his back ripple with an effortless, lethal grace that makes my throat dry.

"Don't look too hard, Miller. You'll drool," he tosses over his shoulder without turning around, walking out toward the foyer with that same arrogant swagger that drove me insane for twelve straight months.

I grab a pillow and throw it at him.

He ducks at the last second, and it sails harmlessly through the doorway.

His laughter follows him down the hall.

Asshole.

Ten minutes later, we're sitting at his sleek, marble-topped kitchen island, the very antithesis of my chaotic, cramped counter, tearing into an absurd amount of pastries, artisan avocado toast, eggs, and a massive amount of black coffee he somehow knew to order.

The morning sunlight pours through the glass, and for the first time in a year, the ambient noise of the building doesn't feel like an act of war.

"So," Noah says, taking a slow sip of his coffee as he watches me over the rim of the mug. "What happens when you finish the book?"

I pause, a forkful of eggs hovering halfway to my mouth.

I look up, meeting his intense, unblinking gaze.

The playful, teasing edge in his eyes has shifted into something much deeper, much sharper. Something that feels uncomfortably permanent.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, once the manuscript is turned in, the publisher accepts it, and the frantic late-night typing stops," he says quietly, setting his mug down with a soft click against the marble. "Do we go back to sliding passive-aggressive notes under each other's doors, or do we acknowledge that the cold war is officially over?"

The kitchen goes dead silent, save for the hum of the refrigerator.

The reality of what we started last night hangs heavily in the air between us, real and unavoidable.

I drop my fork onto the plate, leaning back against the stool and crossing my arms over my chest, slipping right back into my defensive armor, even if it feels a lot thinner this morning.

"That depends, Noah," I murmur, tilting my head with a challenging smile. "Are you going to keep playing bass at midnight?"

A slow, wicked grin spreads across his face, that familiar, arrogant spark returning to his dark eyes as he reaches across the marble to catch my hand in his, lacing our fingers together.

"Only if you promise to keep coming across the hall to complain about it."

Passive-aggressive notes might be off the table.

The midnight bass?

Apparently negotiable. 😂

Tomorrow is the final chapter, and Clara and Noah still have a few terms left to work out.