But underneath the changes, something fundamental remained untouched. The rhythm of it, the way afternoon light slanted across Main Street. All of it wrapped around me like a memory brought to life.
And a dangerous sense of belonging I’d spent years trying to bury surfaced.
Eric must have sensed my mood shift because he stopped mid-stride, turning me to face him.
“You okay?” His thumb traced my cheekbone, the simple touch grounding me.
“Yeah. Just remembering.”
His eyes darkened with understanding, and he pulled me against his chest, his chin resting on top of my head. The protective gesture was so natural, so right, that I let myself melt into him.
We talked about everything and nothing. Music, movies, the historic romance novels I couldn’t stop reading. Eric’s knowledge of bodice-ripper terminology was both impressive and mortifying.
“Seriously, how do you know the term throbbing manhood?” I demanded, heat flooding my cheeks.
His grin was wicked. “My college roommate had a girlfriend who left her books everywhere. I might’ve read one or two.” He leaned closer, voice dropping in an intimate way that made my pulse race. “And now that I know you’re into them, I might just read a few more.”
The conversation drifted naturally from the lighthearted to the serious. Hunter. My job. The way my boss treated me like I was disposable. Eric’s expression darkened as I spoke, his jaw clenching whenever I mentioned the man.
“He has no right to treat you like that.” Eric’s voice carried an edge that made me shiver. “You deserve better.”
The fierce protectiveness in his tone made my stomach flutter. No one had ever been angry on my behalf before. The feeling was intoxicating.
We avoided the heavy topics by unspoken agreement—cancer, uncertain futures, what came next.
Instead, we kissed. A lot.
Against storefronts, on park benches, wherever Eric decided he needed to taste me. Each kiss felt like a claim, his hands framing my face or fisting in my hair with barely restrained hunger.
By the time we made it back to my father’s house, I was drunk on his attention.
The kitchen felt different with Eric’s presence filling the space. He moved around me with purpose. His body heat a constant presence as we searched for dinner ingredients. Every casual touch felt exhilarating. His hand on my lower back as he reached around me. His fingers brushing mine as he passed me something.
“Here.” He handed me Mom’s old yellow colander, his fingers covering mine for a beat longer than necessary.
“God, this thing’s indestructible. I think it was my grandmother’s.”
“Must’ve been the era. Mine had the same one.” Eric was already rummaging through drawers with the confidence of someone who belonged here. The domesticity of it stole my breath.
We moved around each other like we’d done this dance a hundred times. His hip bumped mine as he reached for plates. I pressed against his back, inhaling his scent while he stirred sauce. When I stretched to reach the pasta bowls, his hand settled on my waist, steadying me.
This felt dangerous. Too easy. Too right.
At the breakfast bar, Eric claimed the stool next to mine, pulling it close enough that our thighs pressed together. His arm brushed mine every time he reached for his water. When he leaned forward to take a bite, his shoulder bumped against me. Every time he lifted his fork, I watched the muscles in his forearms flex.
The man was pure temptation, and he knew it.
“Have you thought more about what you’ll do with this place?”
The question hit like a cold splash of reality. I wasn’t ready for this conversation, wasn’t ready to think about owning this house or what that would mean.
“Nope.” I turned the tables before he could push. “What about you? You’ve told me you don’t want to go back to work for your uncle, but what do you want? What’s in your future?”
Eric shifted, his discomfort obvious. Good. He could squirm for once.
“I haven’t allowed myself to really think that far ahead.”
“There’s got to be something. What did you want before you got all responsible?” My teasing smile masked genuine curiosity.
