As I come down from the high, I feel him still hard inside me, still moving with careful restraint.
“You didn’t finish,” I murmur, kissing him deeply.
“It’s okay,” he says against my lips. “This was for you.”
I pull back to look at him, struck by the selflessness of the gesture. “I want it to be for both of us.”
Something flashes in his eyes—desire but also a kind of wonder. I tighten my inner muscles around him, making him groan.
“Please, Kai,” I whisper. “I want to feel you.”
That seems to break his resolve. His movements become more purposeful, his breathing more ragged. I match his rhythm, encouraging him with soft words and the press of my body against his. When he finally comes, it’s with a quiet intensity that takes my breath away—his face buried in my neck, his arm holding me close as if I might disappear.
We stay like that for a long time, connected and floating in the warm water, neither of us willing to break the spell. Eventually, though, the practicalities of our situation assert themselves—his bandaged hand, the cooling night air, the need to get home.
Reluctantly, we disentangle and move toward the edge of the pool. Kai helps me out first, then follows, water streaming fromour bodies. The night air feels chilly after the heat of the spring, making us hurry to dress.
As I pull on my clothes, I notice Kai watching me with a soft expression I can’t quite read.
“What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
“Nothing.” He smiles, pulling his shirt over his head. “Just...thank you.”
“For what?”
“For seeing me,” he says simply. “The real me.”
I cross over to him and rise on tiptoes to kiss him softly. “I like the real you very much.”
His smile widens, and for the first time since I met him, it reaches all the way to his eyes—no shadows, no hidden insecurities, just pure Kai.
“Come on,” he says, taking my hand with his uninjured one. “Let’s go home.”
Home.
The word sounds so good coming out of his mouth that I can almost forget that this dream I’m living can’t possibly last forever.
THIRTY-ONE
GRAYSON
The lock clicksinto place with a satisfying thunk. I give the doorknob a firm tug—habit, not necessity. The general store’s been robbed exactly once in its seventy-year history, and Old Man Jenkins still talks about it like it happened yesterday instead of in 1987.
I pocket the keys and pull my bandanna higher over my scars. The night air carries a bite that wasn’t there as sharply last week. Full winter is about to set in. Most of the shops along Main Street are already dark, their owners home for dinner or drinks at The Lodge.
Movement across the street catches my eye—a tall figure pacing under the streetlight, phone pressed to his ear. Ryder Greythorn. Even without the light illuminating his face, I’d know that swagger anywhere. Some things don’t change, even after years and thousands of miles.
I step back into the shadows of the store’s entrance, instinct taking over before conscious thought. The lights inside are off, the display window between us. He can’t see me, but I can hear him. His voice carries in the quiet night, loud and careless.
“—told you it wouldn’t work. These backwoods idiots don’t understand real estate values.” Ryder laughs, the sound grating against my ears. “Thompson turned down fifty grand for that shithole coffee shop. Said it was worth twice that.”
He pauses, listening to whoever’s on the other end.
“Yeah, well, he won’t be so proud in a few weeks. He’ll be begging us to take it off his hands for twenty-five.” Another laugh. “Trust me. This is going exactly according to plan.”
My jaw tightens. The Mountain Mug has been in Thompson’s family for three generations. His daughter works there while putting herself through college.
Ryder starts walking, still talking. Decision time. Follow and learn more, or head home and pretend I didn’t hear anything? The question answers itself as my feet move, tracking Ryder at a distance. Some instincts don’t fade.
