Soft at first, tentative. A breath, a taste—warm, sweet. But then her fingers curled in my shirt, and I was gone. I pulled her closer, wrapping my arms around her, feeling her body against my chest. My fingers threaded into her hair, as I cupped her face, my thumb grazing her cheek, melding her mouth to mine. Her lips moved against mine, strawberry and heat, and I let myself drown in it, in her.
Knowing damn well I shouldn’t.
I broke away, leaning my forehead on hers, dragging in air like I’d surfaced from deep water, ignoring the forming hardness in my jeans. “Rio ...” My voice was rough. “I’m not for you. This isn’t a good idea.”
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t waver. Just breathed against me and traced her fingers from my shoulder down my arm, slipping her palm beneath the short sleeve of my tee, her hand molding to my bicep. “It doesn’t have to mean anything,” she whispered. “You’ll be gone soon, anyway.” She gave me a small, knowing smile, her eyes too damn wise for the girl in front of me.
I should have stopped there. Should have walked away.
Then her fingers moved under my sleeve, slow and absent, like she wasn’t even aware of what she was doing—skimming over my skin, searing heat into me. A simple touch, yet it burned, a live current surging through me, unraveling the last frayed thread of my resolve.
Her lips found mine again.
And just like that, my good intentions vanished.
13
Rio
HE WANTED TO KISS ME.
He was going to.
I could see it in his eyes, in the way they locked with mine, then trailed down to my lips.
I wanted him to.
I wanted to be that brave Rio I’d been sixteen years ago, several men ago, a few heartaches ago.
But I wasn’t her anymore.
Back then, I thought I could take what I wanted and walk away unscathed. But I wasn’t nineteen anymore, and Owen wasn’t just any man. And though I knew that just like before, he’d be leaving again—I’d seen it in his face at dinner when that fan hovered, the way reality pulled him away from the moment—I couldn’t bring myself to reach for what I craved.
Not this time.
At thirty-five, I had finally learned to control my speech, to breathe through my stutter. But I’d lost the reckless belief that love wouldn’t break me. My heart should be off the table. Even if my body screamed with longing for his touch.
“Good night,” I repeated, my voice steadier than I felt, and walked into my room.
The door clicked shut behind me.
I leaned against it for a moment, listening, wondering if Owen was still standing in the hallway. Wondering what the worst thing that could happen if I reopened the door and just went for it.
But I already knew the answer.
“WHO WON LAST NIGHT?” I asked as I entered the kitchen. Walter sat at the table, looking far too refreshed for someone who had stayed up late playing a game. His oatmeal and nuts sat untouched, and he was skimming the paper, hovering over his breakfast like he wasn’t quite ready to eat.
“Who do you think won?” he shot me a wry look and took a first bite.
I scoffed. “Walter! Did you at least offer her some snacks? The sink was empty this morning. Not even a glass of water in it.”
“Eh. She brought one of them Stacy Cups or whatever you call them. Talked endlessly about how her skin looked young because she kept herself hydrated. Fishing for compliments.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “You’re impossible, I swear. And it’s called a Stanley Cup.”
“Speaking of cups, Mr. Cup Winner is still asleep.” Walter smirked, clearly enjoying himself. “How was your dinner?”
I took my coffee mug and sat across from him at the kitchen table, stirring a spoon through my cereal. Outside, the sky was an endless stretch of blue, and through the open window, the scent of damp earth and sea salt mixed with the citrus of Walter’s garden. A breeze carried the sound of rustling leaves, the occasional trill of a bird.
