“I don’t want to think about it at all.”
When the laughter died away, silence crept in—hanging between us, charged. The car radio hummed low, but it didn’t drown out the memories pushing their way in.
We were once the ones afraid to be caught.
And now? Now, I wasn’t sure what we were.
The house was still and dark when we stepped inside. Walter’s door was shut. Rio tapped it lightly, then peeked in.
“He’s snoring,” she whispered.
We moved upstairs, the dim glow from the hall light casting long shadows ahead of us. The hush, the quiet sound of our feet on the stairs, the way her presence filled me even without touch—it all felt like stepping into a memory, one I shouldn’t still crave.
At the second-floor landing, the light caught in the warmth of her deep brown eyes, framed by those soft bangs.
It wasn’t easy to remember why I shouldn’t want to reach out and touch her.
It wasn’t easy to forget that I once had.
“Thanks for dinner,” she murmured.
“Thanks for the company.”
“Ditto.” She smiled. “Good night, Owen.”
For the first time, I felt like catching that tiny pause before she pronounced the G—closing the space, kissing the words right out of her mouth.
Tension stretched between us, thick and crackling, bouncing off the white-washed walls and wrapping around us. My pulse wasn’t steady anymore—it drummed against my chest, echoing in my ears.
All I could see were her eyes. All I could think about was how her lips had once tasted like strawberries. The scent wasn’t even on her tonight, but it lingered anyway, taunting me.
Rio’s gaze was locked on mine, and I knew—knew without a doubt—that the same thoughts, the same memories, the same ache, flickered through her mind, too.
But what could I offer her?
A recovering athlete, counting the days until I left again. A man who could list his trophies but chased the ones hehadn’t won yet. A man who had never saidI love youto anyone.
Millions loved me now, but I always had to prove myself in some way to be loved. If they knew who I was without my career, without my achievements, without the perfectly curated image, without the face that made cameras linger and sold headlines and campaigns—
Would they even look twice?
Would she?
THE GUEST ROOM WASsmall and too damn flowery, the bed beneath us dipping slightly where we sat side by side. The scent of fresh laundry lingered in the air, lacing with the trace of Rio’s shampoo.
She was too close. Then she slipped closer.
I inhaled.
She looked up at me, heat shimmering in her eyes—anticipation, uncertainty, need. Her breath came shallow, her lips parted, glossed with a faint sheen that smelled sweet.
My heart hammered. The air between us was dense with the questions and truths we’d tossed back and forth earlier, with everything I hadn’t let myself consider until now, and with the certainty of where this was heading.
With wanting it.
And knowing I shouldn’t.
And then she kissed me.
