She took a slow step closer. “You don’t get to make that choice for me. That’s not noble. That’s unfucking fair. Not to mention selfish.”
He stared at her—words locked somewhere behind the ache in his chest.
For a second, he thought about saying it—about admitting that she wasn’t just someone who’d gotten under his skin, that he’d started to believe maybe he could have something again. That she’d been part of the reason he pushed so fucking hard to open the south office in Calusa Cove. Not the entire reason, but his attraction—feelings—had factored into that want—that need. But the truth sat like gravel in his throat.
He couldn’t promise her anything. So he didn’t. “I’m sorry.”
Fallon’s jaw clenched. “Then you should go.”
That landed like a gut punch.
He nodded once, slow, and stepped toward the door. He opened it and paused on the threshold, half expecting her to say something—to stop him. She didn’t.
The screen door clicked shut behind him, soft as breath.
The night hit like a fist of humidity and regret. Crickets sang, frogs croaked, and his heart felt too loud in the stillness.
For a long moment, Buddy just stood there on the porch, staring out across the cabins toward the shimmer of the Glades. He could almost hear his ex-wife’s voice, all those years ago. You’re going to end up utterly alone and broken.
Maybe she’d been right.
He made it to the steps before something inside him cracked. He turned. Went back.
He hit the door with his fist once. Twice. Hard enough for the wood to rattle. “Fallon,” he called.
Nothing.
He slammed again. “I’ve got something to say and I’m not leaving until you open the door.”
Another second. Then the handle turned. She stood there, hair loose now, eyes bright and furious. “What the hell do you want?”
He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years. “I can’t make promises,” he said, voice low, rough-edged. “I’ve been broken for a long time. I can’t promise I won’t hurt you.”
Her chin lifted, steady, defiant. “That’s fine. I’m not built for picket fences and decisions past today. Besides, I can’t promise I won’t crush you.”
The air between them snapped—charged and alive.
He moved first. Closed the space between them in two steps. His hands came up, cupping her face, and then he kissed her—hard, hungry, desperate in a way that felt like both surrender and survival.
Fallon didn’t hesitate. She met him halfway, fingers gripping his shirt, pulling him closer. The kiss was heat and apology, whiskey and want, a collision neither of them tried to avoid.
When they broke apart, they were both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.
“This is a bad idea,” he whispered.
“Definitely,” she said. “But I’ve had worse.” Her lips curved, soft and dangerous. “So much worse.” She tugged him inside, slamming the door shut.
The cool kiss of the air conditioning was a jarring contrast to the heat simmering off them, breathing heavy, their bodies pressed closer than they had ever been. He let out a slight, broken sound at the feel of her softness against him, the brush of fabric against fabric before their bodies inevitably drew together.
In his mind, this was all kinds of wrong. He wasn't good for her. He wasn't suitable for anyone. Yet, he was selfish enough to want her, to take what she was willing to give.
"Bedroom’s this way," Fallon whispered, a thread of laughter coloring her voice. She slipped from his grasp, and Buddy trailed after her like a man who’d follow her anywhere.
His gaze flitted across her back, the way her hair brushed against her back, the expanse of taut shoulders, and then the sway of those shorts as the space between them grew. She moved like a woman who knew her power, who understood the impact she had.
Her bedroom was filled with the glow of the moon through the partially opened blinds. Her eyes flickered to him, uncertain for a moment before she turned towards the bed, pulling off her tank top without hesitation.
His breath hitched, caught between surprise and desire, as the smooth plane of her bare back met his skin, casting shadows that danced over and highlighted each dip and curve of her frame. This was Fallon—raw, vulnerable, but undeniably fearless.
