“Yeah, Kai, that’s all I need.” I laugh, but it’s a raw and angry sound. “A neat little ‘sorry’ bow tied around this clusterfuck of a thing we’ve got going. That’ll make itall better.” My voice cracks on the last few words.
“I never stopped caring, Haven.”
“Sure got a funny way of showing it,” I rasp.
He drags a hand through his hair as he steps closer, green eyes dark and desperate. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”
“Wish I fucking knew,” I mutter. Angry at him, angry at myself, angry at the world.
Why the hell can’t I tell him what he wants to hear, so he can tellmewhatIneed to hear so we can move onto the fairy tale part where the happy couple drives off into the sunset?
But nothing has ever been easy.
Why would this be any different?
He takes another cautious step. “I could kiss you.”
I should push him away, but when his smell envelops me and I catch the tiniest hint of sun-baked hair and sweat, I don’t want to stop him.
He must see something in my eyes, because he wraps his arm around the back of my neck, sloshing wine over my shoulder in the process, and drags me against him.
His head ducks down, but he murmurs, “You deserve better than me,” before pressing his lips to mine.
I hold myself stiff, refusing to let him seduce me into some kind of truce. But his warm lips are so confident, so insistent against mine, that I feel myself cracking under the pressure.
Then melting.
Then dripping.
God, he’s a good kisser.
A small moan escapes me as our bodies press against each other, and I can feel him hardening for me.
Me.
He wants me.
Me.
Except…maybe it’s not me at all. Maybe he’d kissanyonethis way.
The thought claws at me even as I lean into him. And worse—I can’t stop thinking about how easily Bastian makes me feel the same way, too. That man just has to look at me and I’m squirming. So maybe it’s not Kai either. Maybe this is just what kissing does to me.
I shove Kai away, my face heating a thousand degrees. He gives me a lusty smile, but when he registers my expression, his face goes slack.
“What—”
A hissing sizzle reaches us from the kitchen.
The spaghetti is boiling over.
Because of course the pasta chooses now to scream for attention. Even our fucking dinner knows this will never work.
“Go.”
He just stares at me, wine tilting at a dangerous angle from the glass he seems to have forgotten he’s holding. “Haven?—”
“You wanna burn the spaghetti too?” I snap, furiously blinking back the tears waiting to spill.
