Church Street looks the same as it did two summers ago. So does number twenty-three.
I park alongside the curb, leaning over the center console to study the exterior now that I’m not distracted by driving. Interiorlights are on, and his truck is in the driveway. He’s home, it seems, but that doesn’t mean he’s home alone.
I’m filled with grim determination as I climb out of my convertible and start up the walk. If he’s not alone, that might be better. Will mean we can’t “catch up” and “pretend to give a fuck.” Will mean he’s moved on, the same way I tried to, and hopefully ensure I can leave this town with some shred of closure.
He opens the door alone. And shirtless, which is almost worse.
As long as I’ve known Sawyer Bennett, I’ve been attracted to him. Seeing him this time, the awareness is so sharp that it’s painful. At Atlantic Crest, he was detached and distant. This—him leaning a shoulder against the doorframe, wearing nothing except a pair of mesh shorts slung so low on his hips that I doubt he’s wearing anything underneath them—is too familiar. Too exactly what I’ve spent the past twenty-three months desperately missing.
He says nothing, which I’m not entirely surprised by. It tracks with his dismissiveness at the club. And with the fact that I’ve shown up at his home, seeking him out. Forcing this conversation.
All he does is shove the screen open wider when I reach the doorway. Which is, I guess, better than slamming the storm door in my face.
I slip through the opening, barely aware of theclapas it swings shut.
Still, he’s silent.
I reach out, grabbing his wrist and rotating it so the inside of his forearm is exposed. So I can stare at the sailboat there.
It’s not anI missed youor a love declaration. But it is something. Some evidence that I crossed his mind once in the past two years. That he liked something I’d created enough to permanently ink it on his person. That he wasn’t entirely averse to a reminder of me, although that could also mean it didn’t bother him to have one.
He doesn’t pull away. His arm looks fine, uninjured, so I’m no clearer on what happened with baseball.
I drop one wrist and lift his other. No new tattoos. And no visible damage. My thumb settles against the divot above his palm, feeling the steady pound of his pulse. It feels fast—affected—but that’s likely wishful thinking, plus my nonexistent medical training.
Still, he says—does—nothing. Doesn’t ask why I’m here. Doesn’t ask what I’m doing. Appears unconcerned about my “fiancé” as I fondle his wrist.
So, I step closer, rise on my tiptoes, and kiss him. Kiss him for real, with my tongue in his mouth and with my hands in his hair, the way I know he likes. He doesn’t groan like he used to. But I can feel the chemistry crackling between us, the leashed power as his muscles tense to stave off any reaction.
I suck his lower lip between mine, biting gently, then slide my right hand out of his hair and down the center of his chest.
Finally, Sawyer reacts. But not in the way I’m increasingly needy for. He stops my hand before I can discover if he’s boxer-less, spinning us so I’m the one against the wall and pinning my hands overhead.
I try to pull my hands free, and his hold on them only tightens. My heartbeat turns frantic, a wild rhythm banging against my rib cage so loudly that I’m worried he can hear it.
Because I like it, not because I don’t.
Because I know Sawyer would never hurt me—not physically at least—and that certainty means him holding me hostage is thrilling, not threatening.
I missed this. Him. Sex. Being treated like I’m durable, not dainty.
“Wren.” My name comes out like a curse, his tone low and dark and aggravated. “Get out.”
Disappointment free-falls through my chest, originating awfully close to the organ that was formerly thrashing.
“Or get naked.”
My gaze snaps up, meeting the challenge in his. “Those are my only two choices?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t do either while you’re holding my hands.”
He releases them, the rush of blood as my arms fall hot and hurting.
My decision isn’t much of one. It was made when I came here. Made when I followed him to the parking lot. Made when I followed him into Wade’s bedroom. If Ihadto trace it to a singular moment, I think it was when I kissed him before jumping. Some part of me has known since the second I saw him, if there was a choice between Sawyer Bennett and anything else, I would choose Sawyer Bennett.
He doesn’t think I did two summers ago, but I did. I chose to save him at the expense of us.
