"No!" It comes out too sharp. She winces. "I mean—thank you, but I need to grab dinner at Millie's. Ben's picking me up there. And I need—air. Space. To think."
"Right. Yeah. Of course."
She grabs her coat and bag with jerky movements. At the door, she finally looks back at me. Her expression is complicated—want and confusion and something that might be fear all mixed together.
"River—"
"I know." I lean against the counter, hands gripping the edge to keep from reaching for her again. "We don't have to talk about it now. Just—get to your brother. We'll figure this out."
She nods. Hesitates. Then she's gone, the bell chiming as the door swings shut behind her.
I stand there in the empty store, surrounded by her scent. Sweet arousal still clinging to my clothes, my skin, the air itself.
My phone is in my hand before I fully register moving. I need to tell someone. Need to process what just happened. Need?—
I stop.
Who exactly am I planning to call? Milo, so he can say "I told you so" about taking it slow? Ben, her overprotective brother who will absolutely lose his mind?
No.
I pocket my phone. Lock up the store. Walk to my truck in the December cold.
The drive home is quiet. Too quiet. Gives me too much time to think.
About the way she kissed me. Like she was drowning and I was air. Like she'd been thinking about it just as much as I had. Like it meant something.
But also about the way she ran. The look on her face when she realized what we'd done—not quite regret, but something close. Fear, maybe. Or just the reality of the situation crashing down.
Because this isn't simple. I'm her employer. She just moved back to town after a bad breakup. She's clearly still figuring out what she wants from life.
And I just complicated everything by kissing her.
Well. By kissing her back. She kissed me first.
That matters, right? That she initiated? That she wrapped her legs around me and pulled me closer and made those sounds that will be burned into my brain forever?
I pull into my driveway, sit in the truck for a moment.
My instincts are still riding high on satisfaction—on the taste of her, the feel of her, the way her scent changed when I touched her. Every possessive urge I have wants to track her down at Millie's, claim her properly, make sure every alpha in town knows she's spoken for.
But I'm not that guy. Never have been.
I want her, yes. Want her so badly it's making me stupid.
But I also want her happy. Want her to choose this—choose me—without pressure or confusion or fear that she's making another mistake like whatever happened in college.
So I'll give her space. Let her think. Let her come to me when she's ready.
If she's ever ready.
The thought shouldn't hurt as much as it does.
Inside, I shower and change, trying to wash away her scent. It doesn't work.
My phone buzzes. The hardware store Instagram. Bea posted one of today's videos.
The caption reads:Stay safe out there, Honeyridge Falls! Your neighborhood hardware guy's got you covered.
