She nods slowly. “Okay.”
This whole thing is messy, and I know it. I’ve spent years keeping things neat, keeping people out. Now here I am, inviting her in, because I can’t seem to help myself?
“You don’t have to,” I say before I can stop myself. “If it’s too much?—”
“Aidan,” she cuts in, a playful lilt in her voice. “Are you always this nervous when you invite a girl over to see your…what? Record collection? Fishing trophies?”
Her eyes sparkle with mischief, and the tension in my chest eases slightly.
“I don’t have either of those things,” I admit, the corner of my mouth tugging upward. “I’m not some mysterious bloke with hidden collections,” I add, trying to ignore the way her teasing makes me feel lighter. “Just a normal house. Probably a lot more kid’s toys than you’re expecting.”
“I beg to differ on the mysterious part, but I’m looking forward to seeing it,” she says before tightening her fingers around mine.
I keep my eyes on the road, following the familiar curves through the hills, but then I look over and immediately wish I hadn’t.
Her shirt clings to her chest under her unzipped jacket, and I catch the slow rise and fall of her breaths.
Heat punches low in my gut, enough that I shift in my seat, trying to ease the pressure building in my jeans. My grip on the wheel tightens, knuckles whitening.
She has no idea what she does to me. Or how close I am tomissing a turn because my cock’s reacting faster than my common sense.
She bites her lip while lost in her own thoughts. It’s the third time today, and every damn time, it chips away at my restraint. Doesn’t matter that it’s probably just something she does without thinking. My body doesn’t care. My mind sure as hell doesn’t care. All I can focus on is the shape of her mouth, soft and flushed and so damn tempting it’s bordering on cruel.
If I grip the wheel any tighter, it’s going to snap. I’m trying like hell to ground myself in anything other than the image of her lips caught between her teeth. The things I’d do if I let myself close the space between us… To lean over. To taste her. To lose myself for one goddamn second.
She doesn’t know how close I am to unraveling.
We’re finally rolling to a stop as I pull into the driveway. One hand eases off the wheel, but the other stays tightly clasped in hers.
“We’re here,” I say.
When I turn to her, it hits me all over again. God, she’s beautiful. Her hair falls loose above her shoulders, catching the late afternoon light like it’s made for it. The way she’s looking at me now—open, patient, a little nervous—makes me want to pull her closer and find out if she tastes as sweet as she looks.
“What is it?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
I want to trace the curve of her cheek with my knuckles just to see if she’d lean into it like I’m dying for her to. But I don’t, because if I start, I won’t stop. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us.
“Nothing,” I mutter, dragging my gaze away. “Just…come on in.”
I reluctantly let go of her hand to climb out of the truck, rounding the hood to meet her as she steps down.
I place a hand at the small of her back as we make our way to the porch. The garden’s a bit wild, overgrown in spots whereI haven’t had time to tame it, but there’s something about the way Lucy looks at it that makes me see it differently.
“It’s lovely,” she says, her eyes sweeping over the climbing roses and unruly hedges.
“It’s a work in progress,” I correct her, fishing my keys from my pocket.
The lock sticks a bit, and I have to jiggle the key before the door swings open. I step aside to let her in. “It’s not much,” I mutter. “But it’s home.”
She steps inside, and all I can do is watch her.
Her gaze drifts slowly across the room, taking in the worn leather couch, the coffee table cluttered with Isla’s crayons and paper scraps, the framed photos lined up with a kind of crooked pride along the mantle. She lingers on one of Isla beaming, curls everywhere, watermelon juice staining her cheeks from last summer.
“It’s really nice, Aidan,” she says. “Lived in. Homey.”
I don’t know what to do with that, or with the way she’s standing here, in my space, fitting into it so perfectly.
She moves farther into the room, fingertips trailing over the back of the couch. I track the movement, every inch, heat curling low in my stomach that has nothing to do with lust and everything to do with how goddamn vulnerable this feels.
