I flip up the visor of my helmet. “Okay if we stop?”
“Yes.” She finally loosens her grip and dismounts the bike. She pulls off her helmet and her beauty nearly takes me out at the knees. Her hair is wild from the wind, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright. She looks alive. “Have you been here before?”
I swing off, removing my helmet. “Yeah, I found this spot exploring when I got my first motorcycle.”
"It's beautiful." She walks to the railing overlooking the valley. The river cuts silver through green farmland, peaceful in a way that’s postcard-perfect.
I join her, close enough that our shoulders almost touch.
“But this is my first time back in over a decade.”
She leans into me, and I resist putting my arms around her.
“Why?”
“I used to come here after my dad punished me for going to Hartwell. I’d take the curves too fast, racing the setting sun. Then I’d watch it set here, pretending like he hadn’t hurt me. After a while, I stopped feeling anything, and I forgot about this place.”
“What made you remember it?”
I lean my forearms on the railing. “You.”
“Me?”
“Since that night on the train, you made me feel again. The good, bad, and ugly.”
“Damn, two negatives.”
“I have a lot of bad and ugly.” I look at her. “You are the good.”
“So are you, Thorne.”
“But not enough to keep you.”
“Thorne, I never left, not really. We needed space to figure out our shit, but deep down I never stopped being yours.”
The relief is a physical thing, like someone just cut the ropes that have been strangling me for six weeks. I keep my eyes on the valley because if I look at her now, I won't be able to hide what those words mean to me.
A breeze moves through the trees below. The river keeps rushing. My heart's dancing in my chest—skipping beats, then hammering to catch up.Never stopped being mine. The words loop through my head, and I want to tattoo them into my memory, memorize the exact way she said them.
"Thorne?" There's a wobble, a brittleness that has me turning from scenery. "Have your feelings changed about me?"
My head snaps back. "No. Christ, no."
She turns to face me fully, and we're close enough that I can see how her pupils have swallowed the bourbon-brown of her eyes.
“No. Six weeks, six months, six years. No matter how much time has passed, I’ll still want you. You’re the woman for me.”
"Kiss me." The words are barely a whisper. "Please, Thorne. Kiss me."
I close the distance. My hand cups her jaw and the other slides around her waist, pulling her against me. I press my mouth to hers. She tastes like lemonade and summer and something that's uniquely Ivy.
I've been starving for this. I kiss her again, slower, savoring, but she makes that soft sound and I lose all control. I back her against the railing.
Her hands slide up to tangle in my hair, and I press closer, needing to eliminate every inch of space between us. She arches into me, and I groan against her mouth.
She is what I've been searching for without knowing it. And it’s not just wanting her, but this certainty that wherever she is, that's where I belong.
I move to her neck, teeth scraping the spot that makes her shiver. I slide a hand under her shirt. "Thorne," she gasps. “We're in public."
