“Everett.” My name breaks against my mouth. “We can't—someone could?—”
“I know.” I kiss her jaw. Her neck. The spot behind her ear that makes her gasp. “I know.”
But I don't stop. And for once, she doesn’t either.
Her fingers rake through my hair. Sending a tremor from my scalp to my toes.
I shamelessly scrape my beard across her collarbone sending full-body shivers rocking through her.
And she rewards by tightening her thighs around me.
“This is insane,” she breathes.
“Probably.”
“We're in the middle of the bar.”
“Technically, we're on a barstool.”
A laugh bubbles out of her—half sob, half joy—and the sound cracks something open in my chest.
There you are, heartbreaker.
I pull back just enough to see her face. Pride swells at the sight of her swollen lips.
Tear-streaked cheeks burn hot and pink. Her wild hair falls around us like a curtain, shrinking the world to something small enough she doesn’t have to fear.
“I meant what I said.” I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “I'm not asking you to choose. Not tonight. I'm just asking you to stop running.”
“And if I can't?”
“Then I'll keep finding you.” I brush my thumb across her bottom lip. “Every time you end up at this bar at two in the morning. Every time you hide behind your camera. Every time you look at me with all the things you want to say but can’t.”
She swallows hard. “That's... that's a lot of finding.”
“I've got time.” I smile. It feels rusty, but real. “I've already spent eleven years waiting. What's a few more decades?”
She laughs again, but this time it catches in her throat.
“I don't deserve?—”
“Don't.” I cut her off. Gentle but firm. “Don't do that. You don't get to decide what I think you deserve.”
Her mouth opens. Closes.
And then—footsteps.
We both freeze.
Heavy. Familiar. Getting closer.
Sierra's eyes go wide. “Shit?—”
She scrambles off my lap so fast she nearly takes us both down. I catch her elbow, steady her, and she's already yanking the sash over her head, shoving it at me like it's evidence.
“The bar,” she hisses. “Get behind the bar.”
“Sierra, I own the bar?—”
