“What?”
Teddy shook his head with a low chuckle before passing me a glass ball painted with tiny snowflakes—something Sky had made in elementary school. “You could make a tumbleweed look like it belongs on the cover of a magazine. Always could.”
“Mm… my therapist would probably say it’s my pathological need to try to control the things around me,” I said with a snort, carefully hanging the ornament where it would best catch the light.
“Funny,” he murmured, his palm meeting my spine as he reached around me to hang a popsicle stick reindeer. “Mine would say the same thing about you, too.”
Had his hand not been holding me upright, I likely would have toppled over in shock.
Teddy Riggs, in therapy?
The same man who’d once told me that therapy was “just payingsomeone to listen to you bitch and moan”? Who’d refused to join me for grief counseling after Levi, saying he didn’t need to “talk about his feelings with strangers”?
It seemed about as likely as his father, Paul—the founder and former president of Silent Phoenix MC—taking up ballet.
His mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. “Jesus. Don’t look so surprised, Kels.”
“What? I’m just glad to hear you’re finally addressing all your… issues. And I’d be happy to provide your therapist with a comprehensive list of things you could work on, if they need suggestions,” I said sweetly.
He clicked his tongue against his teeth and moved closer. “Bet you’ve got that list memorized, don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” I murmured, tilting my head back to meet his eyes. “And organized into categories.”
This time, he did smile, a real one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made the dimples on his cheeks appear. My stomach flipped. God, I’d missed that smile. Missed the way it transformed his entire face, softened all the hard edges grief had carved there.
By the time I registered what the sudden shift in his expression meant, it was too late. I made a futile attempt to dart around him, shrieking when he looped one arm around my waist and took me down to the rug.
“Don’t you dare,” I warned when he moved above me, his fingers skimming up my sides.
He tickled me until I was thrashing beneath him and begging for mercy between screams of laughter.
“Stop—I can’t—” I gasped, trying to catch my breath as his fingers found the place where my neck met my shoulder that had always been my undoing.
“What’s the magic word, baby?” he asked, grinning down at me with the same boyish expression that had first made me fall in love with him at fifteen.
“Please,” I managed between helpless giggles.
“Please, what?”
“Please stop tickling me before I pee on your rug!” I wheezed, my sides aching from the assault.
He stopped immediately but didn’t move away. We lay there panting, his body caging me against the soft rug, our faces inches apart. The laughter died on my lips as I became acutely aware of every point where we touched—his chest pressed against mine, his thighs bracketing my hips, his hands braced on either side of my head.
The playfulness evaporated, replaced by something infinitely more dangerous. His gaze dropped to my mouth, and my lips parted on a shaky exhale.
We were close enough that I could see the small flecks of gold in his hazel eyes, close enough to watch as his dark pupils eclipsed them. I knew that look. I knew what would come next if I didn’t put a stop to it. But my will had always been paper-thin where he was concerned.
“Teddy?” I whispered when he abruptly pulled back with a muttered curse.
His hand moved to the back of his neck, and I pushed myself up into a sitting position while my heart parachuted out of my chest.
Here it came—the rejection, the gentle letdown, the explanation for why he’d been so careful to keep his distance since our interrupted moment in the hallway.
“We can’t…” He cleared his throat, looking more uncomfortable by the second. “Think it’s best if we hold off?—”
“No, you’re right,” I cut in as I rushed to get up, desperate to save whatever scraps of self-respect I had left. “Let’s just forget it happened and finish the tree.”
The words came out clipped, defensive—my standard operating procedure when I sensed rejection approaching. Better to be the one who pulled away first. Better to pretend I didn’t care than to let him see how badly I wanted him to contradict me.
