The moment is so tender it knots something in my chest. Then the door opens, and they’re gone. The silence that follows sucks all the breathable air from the room.
I clear my throat, cutting through it. “Guess Carson’s got it covered.”
“Fixing my screw ups. That’s new.” Graham’s voice is dry, but there’s something self-aware beneath it. Something raw.
I shake my head. “I don’t think this fixes it.”
He glances at me.
“You still need to make it right. When they come back—you need to tell her what you didn’t tonight. Or someone else is going to and we will miss our chance.”
Graham doesn’t argue. He just nods, once.
But I can tell by the way his hand flexes at his side that it’s going to haunt him until he does.
CHAPTER 45
Willow
The bellover the door jingles as Carson guides me into the small neighborhood ice cream shop, his hand warm on the small of my back.
It’s a gentle touch.
But it’s also a claiming one.
He opens the door for me, showing me with his actions that I’m important to him. Holding it a beat longer than necessary, waiting for me to walk through. Treating me in a way that makes me feel precious and delicate.
Like I’m his.
It’s dangerous how good it feels.
The inside of the shop reminds me of childhood—the smells of vanilla, sugar, waffle cones, and comfort waft in the air. The girl behind the counter greets us with a too-bright smile, her eyes flitting to Carson with undisguised interest. I roll my eyes. Of course she feels that way; he is attractive. But Carson only has eyes for me.
“You’re getting two scoops,” he says, leaving no room for arguing. “One for pleasure. One for emotional healing.”
I blink. “I don’t need healing.”
He grins. “Oh, sweet peaches, you always need ice cream healing.”
The nickname should be irritating. It should remind me I’m supposed to be holding him at arm’s length to protect myself. All of them. But somehow, when Carson calls me it, I enjoy it.
“Pick your poison,” he says, nodding toward the display case.
He doesn’t rush me. But he stands so close I can feel his body heat, his knuckles brushing mine as we lean over the glass. His presence is a balm. A slow, steady uncoiling of the tension inside me. And I hate how much I love it. How much I’m starting to crave it. To crave him.
We settle into a booth with our cones. Mine is sea salt caramel and mint chip, which shouldn’t work but does, and his ice cream is a rocky road.
“Okay, admit it,” he says around a bite of his cone. “Graham is an idiot for sending you away.”
I blink at him, caught off guard. “Is that what you think happened?”
He shrugs, but it’s loaded. “I wouldn’t have sent you away. Especially not when you were finally letting me close. I would have lifted you onto that counter and had a different kind of dessert with you.”
My cheeks flush.
“And if you’d let me,” he adds, leaning in, voice low, “I’d remind you that you don’t need to chase comfort in ice cream when I could give it to you in other ways.”
My thighs clench beneath the table. I’m so screwed.
