I was in love with Nash back then—I still am—but I was also in lust with him. Besotted, as my mother would say. And that combination—that overwhelming need to be with another person, body and soul—is what ruined us. Not a single rational decision gets made while under the influence of the lust-love cocktail.
At least not for me.
At least not when it comes to Nash.
The eight years of history between then and now have done nothing to dampen it. The gossamer thread pulling us toward one another is just as strong. I felt its tug since the second I walked into Thirsty for History that first day.
Which is why when I get out of the shower, instead of smiling at my reflection and letting my mind go to the most perverseplaces it wants to go regarding the night ahead, I completely freak out.
We’re about to slip right back into a feverish physical free-for-all as soon as he gets home. I know it by the look he gave me when he walked out the door and the way it made me tingle.
Instead of leaning into it, I’m battling a million what-ifs.
What if he hates me when he finds out about Bennie? What if we’re making the same mistake we did before? What if it’s not like it was before? What if I haven’t remembered it right, and how it was before wasn’t even that great? What if Nash didn’t mean anything he said, and I end up being shattered all over again?
What if, what if, what if?
WhenI’m being ridiculousclashes againstI’m going to die, I know I can’t let myself touch him.
Not the way I want.
Not yet.
Not until he signs a blood oath saying we won’t end like last time, and I tell him about Bennie.
Which is why, instead of lounging naked in Nash’s living room, spread-eagled on his couch and waiting to receive him when he gets home, I am fully dressed in underwear—unsexy fullback cottons—a T-shirt, overalls, and, for good measure, mismatched socks, and sitting in the guest room.
In the dark.
Last go-around, we made our first mistake on day one by getting so lost in each other that we missed every important conversation. If this is going to work, it can’t be the same. I don’t care how many fingergasms he gives me or how badly I want him. I don’t care how much he begs or how smooth those begs are.
I refuse.
We will not repeat history.
I will control myself, and he will too.
This time, we’ll do it right. Slow. I will tell Nash about Bennie first, then see where it goes.
I can do this.
Only when the sound of the front door opening and closing echoes through the house, my heart leaps to my throat.
Maybe I can’t do this.
Frank’s claws tap against the floor, followed by Nash’s barefooted steps.
My phone rings in my hands, making me jump.
When I answer, Nash asks, “You hiding from me?”
A nervous laugh puffs out of me. “I didn’t know what to do.”
The door to the bedroom opens, and a slice of light cuts the darkness. “Not this.”
He ends the call, but I don’t move. I can’t. I’m a forty-two-year-old, fully dressed, freaked-out statue.
He sits next to me on the bed. “I expected—” He regards my choice of nightclothes. “Less.”
