Blood rushes hot in my veins. The scent of cheap soap and pine-scented cleaner hangs in the air, stifling any remaining discipline I may have to make a good decision.
Wyatt doesn't flinch. He stands in front of the door, with his rugged stare, daring me to bolt.
My chest rises and falls too quickly. I blurt out, "Are you going to say something?"
He tips his head slightly, a teasing twinkle appearing in his gaze. He taunts, "I was trying to let you breathe first."
"I'm not sure I've done that since I saw you in your cell."
He swallows, his jaw twitching, not missing a beat. "If it makes you feel better, I haven't since I saw you glaring at me through the bars."
A laugh stumbles out of me, unsure and too high-pitched.
He steps closer, peering at me so intensely, my bones feel like they've caught fire.
What am I doing here with him?
We aren't kids anymore.
This is going to end in disaster again.
I shift, needing something to do with my hands, but all I've got is the hem of my wrap and a fast-dissolving grip on my sanity. "Wyatt?—"
"Don't." He closes the gap further, his voice low, not tearing his gaze off mine. "Don't give me the speech. Not right now. Not after that truck ride. Not after what I felt when you touched me."
"I didn't touch you," I claim, but it's a lie, and we both know it.
A wicked, slow, dangerous grin curls his lips. He drawls, "Sugar, you grabbed my shirt like you were trying to rip it off and leave me to freeze in the snow."
Heat scorches through my chest and runs straight between my legs.
I cross my arms. "You're imagining things."
He steps so close, the toes of our boots touch. He shakes his head. "No, I'm not. And trust me, I've imagined plenty of things about you, Willow, so I know fantasy versus reality."
Butterflies resume the war they've been fighting in my belly since Christmas night. Every time they destroy a red flag, another one appears to replace it.
This isn't a smart way to start the New Year.
I tilt my chin up. "You think a few sweet words are going to undo what you did?"
He drops his voice lower, sending a wave of shivers down my spine. "No. I think one more kiss might, though."
Brutal silence expands around us until the air in my lungs turns stale.
I don't want to forgive him, but I want him.
God help me. I still want him.
It's the same problem I've had since the day I realized Wyatt was no longer a big brother figure anymore.
His hand lifts. His rough fingertips skim my jaw. "You're still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
I should shove him away and spew every curse at him that's been festering in my chest for years. Instead, I whisper, "You still talk too pretty."
His lips twitch. "Want me to shut up?"
Eight seconds pass and then the ability to jump out of the way of a moving train no longer exists. Years of pain and longing come to a halt.
