RED NOTES AND KISSES-Chapter 31: FRIDA -

Her phone rang in the early hours of the morning, its sharp trill breaking the calm, unforgivingly pulling her from the best dream she’d had in ages.

Only, as her eyes fluttered open and the pale morning light filtered through the curtains, reality struck hard and fast, it wasn’t a dream.

Her cheeks flushed a deep crimson as she registered the feel of her bare skin beneath the sheets, heat pooling in her belly as the remnants of last night surged back to her.

The phone screen blinked, Leah’s texts bright against the darkness of the room.

The trip to Dubai had been postponed until after Thanksgiving. Thankfully, since her antisocial self needed a break.

Frida groaned, dropping her phone onto the bed and clutching the sheets tighter against her chest.

Her hair was a tangled mess, her lips swollen and slightly sore from the constant nibbling she’d done to stifle her moans.

She glanced at the sheer white curtains swaying gently by the window.

A soft breeze filtered in, carrying the faintest chill of autumn, yet her body still burned, heat licking at her skin with every remembered moment.

She looked at her reflection in the mirror across the room and groaned again. freёnovelkiss.com

Her disheveled appearance wasn’t the problem, it was the knowing gleam in her own eyes, as if her body was betraying her, still humming with the echoes of pleasure.

How had she even made it to bed last night? She racked her brain, trying to piece together the scattered fragments of her memory.

Her sundress had been discarded somewhere near the door.

Her legs had barely held her up as she stumbled to her dorm.

Yet somehow, she was neatly tucked under the covers.

Her mind drifted back, unbidden, to his hands on her body.

She closed her eyes, the memory sharp and vivid. His palm had been firm on her lower back, pinning her against the wall, the cold surface biting into her bare skin.

She remembered the heat of his breath against her neck, his voice low and commanding in her ear.

The way her name sounded when he said it, like a prayer, like a curse.

"Stop," she whispered to herself, shaking her head and trying to chase the thought away.

Instead, she threw herself into cleaning. Her tiny dorm room, with its faded beige walls and worn wooden cabinets, became her battlefield.

She scrubbed the countertops with a vengeance, vacuumed the small blue rug, and rearranged the stack of textbooks on her desk.

The space wasn’t much, a bed tucked in one corner, a kitchenette barely big enough to turn around in, and a cramped bathroom, but she poured all her energy into making it spotless.

Wasted effort since her roommate would trash it in minutes. But hey.

It wasn’t just cleaning; it was survival. The motion kept her sane, kept her from thinking about him. Or his hands. Or his mouth.

Her small Bluetooth speaker sat on the kitchen counter, filling the air with the smooth, sultry tones of jazz.

Frida loved jazz. It reminded her of Sunday mornings as a kid, when her dad would play old records while making pancakes.

The rhythm was comforting, like a warm hug on a cold day. As she moved to the beat, swaying her hips and twirling with the broom, she let herself smile.

The tiny kitchen, with its faded yellow cabinets and stainless steel sink, felt less suffocating as she danced.

She lost herself in the music, spinning in the limited space, her bare feet tapping against the cool linoleum floor.

It wasn’t much of a kitchen, but she’d made it her own, hanging fairy lights along the tops of the cabinets and pinning postcards from places she wanted to visit on the fridge.

As she twirled, she couldn’t help but laugh at herself. She wasn’t crazy, just... trying to forget.

But every time her body brushed against the counter or the wall, her mind betrayed her again, dragging her back to last night.

To him.

By the time the pasta was on the stove, and the rich aroma of tomatoes and basil filled the air, she felt a little more like herself.

She stirred the pot with practiced ease, humming along to the music, when her phone buzzed again.

"Hey, Frida."

Her mom’s voice was warm, familiar, pulling her from her thoughts. Frida leaned against the counter, her fingers brushing the edge of the marble surface.

"Mom, to what do I owe you remembering my existence?"

Her mother chuckled lightly. "Oh, well, you won’t believe who I saw in the supermarket today... Laz’s mother."

The spoon clattered from her hand, splashing sauce onto the counter.

Laz.

The name struck her like lightning, sending a jolt through her entire body. Her heart pounded in her chest, her pulse roaring in her ears.

Her mind spiraled, last night’s memories crashing over her like a tidal wave.

The way his voice had sent shivers down her spine, the way her body had reacted to his every word, his every touch.

And the way she’d moaned his name.

She swallowed hard, her throat dry.

It couldn’t have been him. It shouldn’t have been him. But now, every piece clicked into place. The familiarity in his voice, the way he’d known exactly how to unravel her.

Her legs trembled as she braced herself against the counter.

The thought of it being Laz, her ex-best friend, her once-everything, stirred something deep within her. Desire. Fear. Hope.

"Frida?" her mom’s voice called from the other end of the line, breaking her trance.

She forced a smile into her voice, though her hands still trembled. "That’s nice, Mom. Say hi to her next time."

As she hung up, her gaze drifted to the window. The sunlight streamed through the curtains, casting soft golden patterns on the floor.

If it had been him, what did it mean? Why now?

Her mind refused to rest, and her body still hummed with the memory of his touch.

If it really was Laz, she wasn’t sure she could survive speaking to him again. But a part of her, a reckless, desperate part, ached for it.