My phone rings.
The sharp sound shatters the moment like glass. Kiera jerks back, and I drop my hands from her waist immediately, steppingaway to give her space. My phone is still ringing, loud and insistent at the top of the stairwell.
“Sorry,” I mutter, fumbling for my phone. I pull it out and glance at the screen. My mother. Of course it’s my mother.
I look up at Kiera. Her cheeks are flushed, her breathing uneven, and she won’t quite meet my eyes.
“I should—” She gestures vaguely toward the truck. “More boxes.”
“Yeah.” My voice comes out rough. “More boxes.”
She practically flees down the stairs, and I stand there on the landing, my phone still ringing in my hand, trying to process what just happened.
We almost kissed. We werethis close. And if my phone hadn’t rung?—
I decline the call and shove my phone back in my pocket, running both hands through my hair. My heart is still racing, my body still humming with awareness and want and the ghost sensation of Kiera in my arms.
Tomorrow, I’m turning my phone off.
CHAPTER 10
KieraEmmerson
Tuesday, June 1
My heart is hammering so hardI’m surprised it hasn’t cracked a rib. I stand at the back of the truck, staring at a box labeled “Kitchen Supplies” without really seeing it. My hands are shaking as I reach for it, and I have to grip the cardboard tighter than necessary to keep from dropping it.
River Stone almost kissed me. Worse—IwantedRiver Stone to kiss me. I almost closed those last few inches between us and kissed him right there on that narrow staircase like some character in one of his stupid Korean dramas.
What is wrong with me? I have a plan. A good plan. Get the scholarship, go to culinary school, build a career, become independent. Nothing in that plan involves getting tangled up with a guy who could break me into a million pieces without even trying. Nothing in that plan involves risking my heart on someone who’ll probably leave the island in six months when the novelty wears off and Hollywood comes calling again.
I clutch the box against my chest like armor. Focus, Kiera. You have goals. You have dreams. You donothave time to develop feelings for your impossibly attractive employer who makes you laugh and listens when you talk and looks at you like you’re something precious instead of something broken.
Nope. Not going there. Not doing this.
Every single time I’ve trusted someone, they’ve destroyed that trust. My ex turned me into a bet. My parents kicked me out like I was an unwanted rodent. Even the universe itself seemed determined to prove I wasn’t worth keeping around, leaving me under a bridge for six weeks.
River Stone is different, sure. He seems kind and genuine and safe. But that’s exactly what makes him dangerous. Because I could fall for him, and when he inevitably leaves or realizes I’m not worth the effort, it’ll hurt worse than anything that came before.
Plus, let’s be realistic here. I’m not even close to being in his league. He’s got money, a gorgeous house, residuals from a hit TV show. He’s been on magazine covers. People recognize him on the street.
And me? I’ve got a beat-up Honda, a studio apartment I can barely afford, and a collection of emotional scars that would make a therapist weep. We’re from different worlds, and pretending otherwise is just setting myself up for heartbreak.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs makes me tense. River appears, and I focus very intently on the box in my arms.
“Hey.” His voice is gentle, careful. “You okay?”
No. Absolutely not. I almost kissed you and it terrified me and I can still feel your hands on my waist and I don’t know how to process any of this.
“I’m fine.” I keep my voice light, casual, like my heart isn’t still trying to escape my chest. I shove the box at him without meeting his eyes. “Here. Just a few boxes left.”
He takes it, and I see him hesitate like he wants to say something. Please don’t. Please don’t acknowledge what almost happened. Please just let me pretend it didn’t.
“Okay,” he says finally, and I could kiss him for not pushing.
Except I definitely cannot kiss him. That’s the whole problem.
We make quick work of the remaining boxes, moving in silence that’s thick with everything we’re not saying. I keep my distance, staying on the opposite side of the stairwell, making sure our hands don’t brush when we pass boxes between us. By the time we carry the last box upstairs, I’m wound so tight I might snap.
