When I get back to the station hours later, I’m bone-tired and still keyed up. She’s gone, obviously. But everywhere I walk, I see it. The way she tipped her chin up at me. The way she whispered. The way her pulse jumped when I crowded her space. The smell of sugar still lingers. One of the guys left the Tupperware open on the break room table. I pick up a cookie without thinking.
Her cookies.
Her.
Everything tastes like wanting her.
I toss the cookie, frustrated at myself for losing control. Because I did lose control. Or I came damn close. And next time? There won’t be an alarm to save me from myself.
Later that night I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying every second in that locker room.
The way she looked at me—like I was heat and she was freezing and stepping closer wasn’t a choice but a necessity.
I shouldn’t want her this much. But want has nothing to do with it. It’s instinct. Pull. A gravitational force. She walks in and everything shifts. The world tilts. My pulse changes its rhythm like it’s syncing to hers.
And when she whisperedTell me?
No fire has ever burned hotter.
The next morning when she drops Junie off at school, I’m there—“routine safety check”—and she spots me before she expects to.
Her cheeks flush instantly. Good. She remembers.
We walk past each other in the hallway. Her shoulder brushes mine—accidental, maybe—but deliberate in the way she doesn’t pull away. I lean down, low enough my mouth almost grazes her ear.
“We’ll finish that conversation,” I murmur.
Her breath catches. “Saxon?—”
“Soon.”
She closes her eyes like she’s trying to pull herself together.
“I shouldn’t have gone in there,” she whispers.
“You should’ve,” I counter. “You knew I’d follow.”
She swallows hard. “And that’s the problem.”
“No,” I say softly. “That’s the part you liked.”
She opens her eyes. Fire. Fear. Want.
All of it aimed at me.
She turns and walks into her classroom, leaving me there—wanting her all over again. And knowing damn well I’m going to get her. Not because of the fake engagement. Not because of the town. Not because of the circumstances. Because she wants me too.
And she can pretend all she wants—but I’ve seen it. Felt it. Heard it in her voice.
Tell me.
We’re past pretending. This fire is already burning and it’s only a matter of time before it consumes both of us.
Chapter Nine
Briar
Junie is vibrating in her booster seat like she’s powered by electricity instead of chicken nuggets and applesauce.
