Three hours later, and I can still smell honey and citrus every time I move. It clings to the sleeve where I grabbed her, sunk into the fabric like it belongs there.
It doesn’t belong there. Nothing about her belongs anywhere near me anymore.
I shove the jacket off and hang it on the back of my chair. Doesn’t help. The scent’s in my head now. Burned into my memory from those few seconds when she was pressed against my chest, her body going soft and warm, her scent shifting into something that made every alpha instinct I have snap to attention.
Pathetic.
The report in front of me hasn’t changed in forty minutes. Same words. Same paragraph. I keep reading the first sentence over and over, and none of it sticks. My brain won’t cooperate. Keeps dragging me back to that driveway. The ice. The fall. The way she felt in my arms.
The way she looked at me like I still meant something.
I grab my pen and click it. Once. Twice. The repetitive motion helps. Gives my hands something to do besides remember the shape of her waist.
“You gonna read that or just glare at it?”
Liam drops into the chair across from my desk, coffee in hand. He’s got that look on his face. The one that says he knows something’s up and he’s going to be annoying about it.
“I’m reading it.”
“You’ve been on page one since I got here.” He takes a sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim. “And you’re doing that thing with the pen.”
I stop clicking. Set it down. “What thing?”
“The thing you do when you’re trying not to punch something.” He grins. “Last time you did that, you broke the vending machine.”
“The vending machine stole my dollar.”
“It was a hate crime against snacks. Very justified.” He props his feet up on the edge of my desk. I shove them off. “Long night?”
“Something like that.”
“This have anything to do with the rumor that Cara Donovan’s back in town?”
My jaw tightens. I keep my eyes on the paper. “Who told you?”
“Everyone.” He ticks them off on his fingers. “Maeve. Mrs. Patterson. Deputy Sanders. The guy who delivers the mail. Pretty sure the stray cat outside knows by now.” He grins. “Small town. You know how it works.”
Yeah. I know exactly how it works. By now, half of Honeyridge has probably heard I was at Eileen’s this morning. The other half will know by lunch.
“It’s not relevant to anything.”
“Your high school girlfriend shows up after ten years and it’s not relevant?”
“She wasn’t my girlfriend.” The words come out sharper than I meant them to.
Liam raises an eyebrow. “Right. Pack girlfriend. Whatever you want to call it.” He leans back in his chair, the front legs lifting off the floor. “I remember what you were like after she left. We all do.”
I set the report down. Look at him directly.
“Ancient history.”
“Is it, though?” He’s watching me too closely. Seeing too much. “Because you’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one you get right before you do something stupid. Or break something.” He lets the chair drop back to all four legs. “Sometimes both.”
I almost laugh. Almost. Because he’s not wrong. I spent the whole drive back from Eileen’s reminding myself why I can’t do this. Why I can’t let her back in. Why “Ms. Donovan” is the only safe way to address her.
