Prologue
Tiel
May
I'd forgottenhow the morning sun slanted through the old firehouse's windows and bathed Sam's bed in bright warmth.
It was intense, almost blinding, but I didn't want anything to change. I wanted to remember every ounce of this moment because nothing I'd experienced in the past three months came anywhere close to the level of perfection that was Sam's body wrapped around mine right now.
Not earning a doctorate.
Not convincing my twice-a-week guitar lesson, Seraphina, to tell me why shelovedOne Direction.
Not telling my sister to fuck off when she announced she had a baby girl and strongly suggested I move back to New Jersey to be her nanny.
Nothing was as perfect as having my precious, pervy boy back. Finally.
"You smell good," he murmured, his mountain man beard tickling my neck.
"I seriously doubt that," I said.
Sam shifted beside me and hooked his jean-covered thigh over my legs. He was still dressed—we both were—and part of me appreciated that I didn't need to be naked and naughty to feel this close to him. We both knew there was a lot to talk about, but when we'd arrived at the firehouse last night, we'd known there would be time for all the words later. Touching each other, resting our heads on the same pillow, justbeingtogether was what mattered then.
It was the best sleep I'd gotten in months.
"You're always saying that, but you smell likeyou, and I've missedyouso much."
His words were muffled as he spoke against my skin, and while I wanted to ask whether smelling like me meant smelling like stale pepperoncini, his lips moved up my neck and I didn't want to think anymore. I urged him closer to me, pulling at his clothes until he was pressed against me and his mouth covered mine.
"I have to tell you," he said around a groan. "I have to tell you about something I—"
"Sam," I sighed.
I knew exactly where this was going. I knew Sam, and I knew these past three months were probably filled with his special brand of self-inflicted torture. If I was being honest with myself, I'd been doing the same thing.
"I screwed up," he said, his forehead pressed to mine. "So many things I should have done differently, but this…"
I searched his eyes, hoping to see what I needed there. "We were broken up," I said. "Whatever happened, happened. What matters is that you're here now and we're moving past it."
"But—"
"You don't have to say anything else," I whispered. "We both screwed up. We were both wrong. We're going to make it work."
"I vomited on a woman," he said.
What else could I do but laugh? This was a story I needed to hear. "You what?"
He sighed and dropped his head to my shoulder. "A couple months ago, before leaving town, I went out and got really drunk. Really drunk.Stupiddrunk. I had the brilliant idea to get loaded on shots and try to forget everything…" His voice trailed off and he glanced at me, his expression an uncomfortable blend of disgust and regret. "I let someone rub my dick and the whole time I was thinking about how the only thing I wanted was you, and then I puked on her."
I didn't like hearing about anyone touching Sam, but something about vomit interrupting a hand job was absolutely beautiful in every corner of karma. I knew Sam wasn't sitting at home and crying over his blueprints when we separated. He wasn't the kind of guy who wrote poetry or camped at a girl's door; he did reckless, self-destructive shit like this.
Or maybe that's who hewas.
"A lot?"
This solid mass of man pinning me to the bed, he was new. It would take me weeks and months—years, even—to catalogue all thenewand fold it into the complex symphony of Sam.
"Yes, Tiel, quite a bit," he said while I shook with laughter. "I'm pleased you're finding this so funny. Here I am, thinking you're going to tear my balls off and shove them up my ass, and you're fucking laughing at me. That's splendid."
