Instead, I rest my forehead against the wheel and whisper, “I’m sorry, Willow. I’m so goddamn sorry.”
But apologies aren’t enough anymore. It’s time I prove I mean it.
CHAPTER 56
Willow
The late afternoonsun filters through the living room windows, casting a soft glow over everything—the world itself is daring me to believe I’m safe here. I curl up at the edge of the couch, my heat pillow resting on my stomach, warm and comforting. Graham is at the stove again, stirring something that smells delicious, while Hunter wipes down the kitchen island with unnecessary precision, his brows furrowed, trying not to look at me too much.
Carson’s sprawled next to me, one arm across the back of the couch and the other lazily tracing shapes on the exposed skin of my arm. It’s casual, natural—so intimate it makes my heart ache. I don’t think I’ve ever had this before. Not even with Landon. Real comfort. Real care. Real love, even if no one’s said the word out loud yet.
I’m surrounded.
And I’ve never felt more wanted.
And yet, I can’t stop thinking about Finn.
The box, the collage, the way he looked when I approached him across the street. Like I was the moon and he was a man willing to drown in the tides just to reach me.
It’s not just an obsession. It’s devotion. It’s terrifying. And part of me wants to explore what that means. But I’m not stupid, I know how that will sit with the guys.
Especially Graham.
Hunter too.
But Carson…
Carson’s my best bet. He gets it. I know he does. He was there when we ran into Finn. If any of them could be swayed, it would be him.
The plan to let me see Finn might have started with a strategy for them—get her to trust us, give her space, control the variables—but I’m not mad about it. Honestly, it’s kind of brilliant.
Because they were right.
I would’ve found a way to see him, no matter what. There’s a reckless part that lives inside of me that I’m not sure will ever be tamed.
“Peaches,” Carson murmurs, breaking my spiraling thoughts. “You’re staring.”
I blink, realizing my gaze’s been locked on his mouth for longer than is remotely appropriate. “I’m thinking.”
“Dangerous,” he teases, smirking. “Should I be worried?”
“Always,” I reply, grinning back. “I’m trying to figure something out.”
“Wanna talk about it?” His hand slides from my arm to my thigh.
I glance toward the kitchen. Hunter is slicing bread now. Graham is bent over a simmering pot, focused, exacting. Neither of them is paying attention.
But Carson is.
I lower my voice. “You knew I’d want to see him again.”
His gaze doesn’t flinch or ask who I’m talking about. “Yeah.”
“You didn’t stop me when I crossed that street to go to him.”
Another pause. Then a nod. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
