I never want to feel it again.
Tears prick the back of my eyes, but I force them down, clinging to him like I’ll drown if I let go.
This was supposed to be simple.
Pleasure, not emotions.
Sex, not love.
Temporary, not forever.
But tonight has changed everything.
Because now I can’t keep pretending. I can’t lie to myself anymore.
I’ve fallen for the one man I’m not supposed to love.
And the one man I can never have.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CLAIRE
By the timeI pull into the driveway of my townhouse the next afternoon, I’m grateful to be back in Sycamore Falls. This is what I need. To be somewhere familiar and put space between Declan and me. Distance always dulls sharp edges. Out of sight, out of mind. That’s how it’s supposed to work.
Except it doesn’t.
Declan is still everywhere. In the ache between my legs. In the ghost of his fingers brushing against my skin. In the way my lips tingle whenever I replay the moment at the hotel door as we said goodbye, his mouth lingering on mine like letting me go was physically painful.
None of it felt like just sex.
None of it felt temporary.
And yet, that’s all we are. All we’re supposed to be.
But a reckless part of me keeps wondering…What if?
Needing to silence that voice, I storm toward the kitchen cabinets and grab flour, sugar, and chocolate chips. Baking cookies should help. The process of mixing and measuring usually forces my mind to focus on something else.
But being in the kitchen reminds me of Declan. Of the night he barged in, eyes wild with fear as the smoke detector shriekedoverhead, unbeknownst to me. How he gripped my face like he was scared I’d disappear if he let go.
My pulse quickens at the memory, heat flooding my face, and I stir the batter harder than necessary. As if I can beat his memory into silence.
“Look who’s finally home.”
I jolt at the sound of Dylan’s voice. She breezes into the living room, unbuttoning her coat and tossing it across the couch.
“Where were you last night?” She waggles her brows and gives me a teasing smile.
But instead of giving her some half-hearted excuse, the question that’s been gnawing at me for over a week spills out.
“Do you think I settle for pieces of people?”
Her light expression falls as she studies the tension in my posture, the batter splattered on the counter, the too-tight grip I still have on the spatula.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Exactly what I said.” I mix the batter with more urgency.
