Chapter 11
Jane
My body is still tingling when I wake up.
Which is an issue because I’ve never had a body-tingling problem before. Not like this.
I lie there staring at the ceiling, replaying it because my brain has nothing better to do. Tex’s mouth on me. The hard heat of his body under me. His choked groan as he came in my hand, as if he’d been holding back and finally snapped.
I press my hand to my heart as if to stop the memories from leaking out, but last night has left an imprint on me that won’t wash off, no matter how many times I shower.
Rolling onto my side, I stare at the window until the pale edge of morning bleeds into the field beyond it.
This is the part where a sensible person would go,Okay, Jane. Slow down. Think. Breathe.
I am not a sensible person.
And my heart is already doing that doomed, stupid thing where it starts building a whole future out of one precious night and a man sayingyou’re enough.
My skin feels too tight. My body is still braced for his hands.
I’m falling.
I hate it.
I love it.
I want to scream.
Instead, I throw the quilt back and sit up, because I can’t afford to spiral.
The cabin is quiet in a way that’s too loud for my brain. I make it to the living room and stop short.
Tex stands in the kitchen with his back to me, his phone pressed to his ear. One hand is braced on the counter, and his head is slightly bowed.
I shouldn’t listen. I know I shouldn’t. But something about the hunch of his shoulders makes my stomach clench, and my feet won't move.
My body freezes the way it does when instinct is faster than choice, when some ancient part of my brain recognizes danger before my conscious mind catches up.
“…she's a lot,” he’s saying, and the words hit like a slap. My chest contracts, and I flinch as if he threw something at me.
“… and I’m out of my depth with her.”
My throat closes. My stomach clenches so hard that I almost double over.
His words aren’t cruel. They’re honest. And that’s so much worse because cruel words I can dismiss. Honesty slips past every defense I’ve ever built.
Buzzing fills my ears, but I force myself to refocus on the conversation.
Tex sighs. “She’s everythin’ I didn’t want, Tank.”
The world tilts. My vision narrows to a pinpoint, to Tex’s back, his hand scrubbing through his hair, those words hanging in the air like a death sentence. Everything else goes fuzzy at the edges, as if my brain is trying to protect me by blurring out the periphery.
I can’t breathe. I literally cannot pull air into my lungs. My chest is too tight, compressed by an invisible fist, and the ringing in my ears drowns out whatever he says next.
Everything I didn't want.
The phrase echoes in my skull, growing louder. My brain grabs it and runs, sprinting toward the worst possible conclusion like it’s racing for a finish line only I can see.
