Just like in the bar, her fingers move to the hair at the back of my neck, gently twirling the strands, caressing the skin there and sending a shiver through me. Water drops off my nose and off her lashes and trails down her cheeks to her lips. I watch in utter fascination as her tongue dips out, licking the water from them.
My breathing grows heavier as we move into the rain, and despite my best efforts, my eyes keep tracking her lips, moving from her eyes to her lips, then back to her eyes, but never anywhere else.
And hers do the same.
And for the first time, common sense takes a back seat.
Would it really be that bad, kissing her?
Would it really be that detrimental to give in just this once, to take what I want? To, as is quickly becoming my favorite thing, give Willa what she clearly wants?
If anything, it would be rudenotto. Why not make this moment even more memorable?
Fuck it.
My arm tightens on her lower back, pulling her wet body closer to mine, and my head starts to dip. Her breath hitches, eyes going wide as her chin tips up a bit more in a moment of acquiescence as she prepares to meet me halfway.
That’s when the lightning strikes, not anywhere too close, but close enough that the thunder follows instantly, deafening. It shocks both of us and jolts me back into reality.
The moment is broken, and it feels like the universe is reminding me of all the reasons that I can’t do this. Despite that, my chest drops with disappointment. Still unable not to steal the smallest moment, I brush my thumb along her soaking-wet cheek before I force my better judgment to take the wheel once more.
“I should get you inside,” I whisper. She licks her lips, and god, I want to taste the rain on her lips.
“Probably,” she says, and I don’t miss the hint of disappointment that’s mirrored in my own chest. I almost say fuck it, but then another crack of lightning lights up the sky, and logic wins.
While I’d do just about anything to keep her happy, right now that need is battling with my other need to keep her safe.
With a sigh, I release my hold on her and step away, then tip my head to the house. “Come on. Let’s get you dry. You can borrow something of mine.”
She nods with a soft, sad smile, and I lead her into the house. We move silently as I grab a towel for her, then lead her to my room, where I grab a dry outfit for myself before handing her a pair of shorts she can tighten at the waist and a T-shirt.
“It’s better than nothing,” I say with an apologetic laugh. “Change in here and bring your wet stuff out—I’ll toss it into the dryer.” She accepts the clothes from me as her hair drips water onto her shoulder, and I force myself not to watch the way the rain glides down her skin. I don’t say anything else, afraid to open my mouth because I have no idea what would come out, instead moving out of the room and closing the door behind me.
Quickly, I change in the bathroom, bring my wet clothes to the laundry room, and toss them into the wash, making sure thedryer is empty for her. Then I stand in the kitchen, unsure of what to do with myself and, more importantly, Willa, until the rain lets up, since I don’t want her driving in this.
After the night at the Mill, once I got past my frustration with her and realized she wasn’t here to cause me a headache but was instead looking for the same thing I was, I thought it would all be okay. I thought I’d been able to pull myself together, to pull that shield back up that I’ve kept between myself and Willa Stone for nearly eight years, but clearly, I was wrong. So fucking wrong.
The wall of professionalism I’ve erected between us is crumbling from all of the moments I’ve spent with her over the last few weeks, from laughing with her and watching her learn new things, and catching moments of precious vulnerability that I cherish. It’s like with each inch her own shield lowered, with each sliver of the real Willa I’m shown, she took a brick out of the fortress I’d built until all that’s left is a shaky, hole-filled wall that’s doing nothing for my restraint.
Needing to keep myself busy, I start moving around the kitchen and decide to make coffee. When the bedroom door opens, I keep my back to her while asking, “Do you want coffee? I’m making some.”
“Do you have creamer, or are you boring and only take it black?” Willa’s musical voice asks behind me. I take in a deep, fortifying breath before turning to face her.
“I have half and half or whole milk,” I say, smiling at her as she steps into the kitchen. I needed that fortifying breath because her damp hair is pulled into a messy bun at the top of her head, her face wiped free of the little makeup she was wearing, and worst of all, she’s in my clothes, the shirt hanging off her narrow shoulders, her smile a bit nervous as she shuffles in.
Once again, as I find happening every day, my chest tightens.
“Thank god,” she mumbles, then turns out of the kitchen towards the laundry room, already knowing the layout of my house as if she herself lives there, just another tiny moment that tugs at my chest.
“Are you going to steal this one, too?” I ask,
“Maybe. The other T-shirt is very comfy. Perfect for sleeping in.” I’m sure she means the night she spent here, but I can’t help but envision her sleeping in my tee at her place. That momentary daydream must be why I ask my next question.
“And the sweatshirt?” Her brows furrow, creating the perfect soft crease between her brows, but there’s something on her face, the tiniest hint of panic.
“What?”
I should drop it, but I don’t.
