She must feel the same, because after I open her door,she turns, wraps her arms around my neck, and rises on her toes to kiss me. Mary Ryan didn’t raise a fool, so I reciprocate, eagerly meeting her wild kiss with my own. It is frantic, hot mouths and soft lips. When she nips at my bottom lip with her teeth and slides her hands from around my neck down over my chest, I am close to losing all sense of place.
I am very close to not caring at all that we’re still parked on a side street in the middle of town.
She makes a desperate, needy sound when my hands slide down over her curves and urge her closer. There is no amount of proximity that will satisfy, but I have a few ideas. And none of them can happen here on the back end of Main Street.
“Home.” It’s ragged, but I manage it, and she’s already nodding.
I lift her by the waist and set her into the front seat, then feel a surge of satisfaction when I see her eyes bright, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling with big gasps. She’s a little undone from my hands, from our kiss, her soft sweater pulled to one side, the lovely ridge of her collar bone and dip of her throat begging to be tasted.
Forcing myself to move, I shut the door after stealing a quick kiss and vowing I won’t touch her while we drive. I can’t afford distractions because every bit of my mind and every cell of my body is locked in on Sam. But I won’t be unsafe driving home. Not tonight, not ever. It’s a vow I made the minute I heard about Julia and Brad’s deaths, and it’s one I’ll keep until I die.
We don’t talk. A Chris Stapleton song plays, low and soulful, and the mountains are turning from purple to shadowy black underneath these juniper skies. Taking them in helps calm me, straightens out every bunched-up bit ofme that is more than ready for what’s coming. It’s been years since I’ve cared about someone, years since I’ve wanted someone, and the fact that Sam is proving to be the most I’ve ever cared aboutorwanted a person feels more than a little significant.
“Your place or mine?”
She breaks the silence between us when I pull into the driveway.
“Girls are at my parents’ for a sleepover. Up to you.”
When I park, she’s biting her lip and I finally register how that sounded. “For the record, they’re having a sleepover because they do about once a month. It gives me the chance to just…” I shake my head. “To have a full night off. Plus you’ve seen my parents with them.”
She smiles, but I see the tightness around her eyes.
“We can end this now. We can make out a little and then go our separate ways. We can watch movies all night. Or we can do more. But whatever we do,whatever,Sam, will be what you want, too. There is no pressure here, and I don’t want anything you don’t. Make sense?”
Her lashes flutter and she exhales. “Yeah.” She nods. “Yes. It does.” She reaches for my hand and cradles it with both of hers, then brings it up and presses a soft, slow kiss to my palm like I’ve done to her countless times now.
“Thank you.”
With a nod and liquid fire in my veins, I hop out and jog around to help her down. We haven’t said anything about it since she asked, but by mutual agreement, we head toward her door. She can check on Mr. Bingley and then we can relax.
Her hand is clasped in mine, our movements less frantic, more purposeful now. It’s not quite dreamlike, but there’s a heightened quality to the air.
“Oh.”
The sound is one of surprise, and I register what causes it a fraction of a second after she says, “Are these from you?”
My “no” is a whip.
She wonders aloud, “I wonder who would send them.”
Now she’s moving in slow motion, bending to pick the card from the top of an extravagant arrangement squatting in a vase on her front porch.
She gives me a funny look, curious and confused, like she’s not sure she believes they aren’t from me. Like it’s impossible someone else would send her flowers.
She tears open the tiny envelope, pulls out the card, and even in the fading light, I see her blanch.
I know it in my gut even before she says a word, but she confirms it with wide eyes and a shaking voice.
“They’re from Andrew.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Sam
Grant paces around the small apartment like if his footsteps wear a path in the laminate, the problem will be solved.
The problembeing my ex has my address and used it. The insipid card read, “Even when you’re far away, you’re mine.” Like that’s a lovely sentiment that’ll draw me back to him and not a thinly veiled threat.
