Memories unspool like ribbons caught in the wind. His mouth lingering on mine. His touch, electrifying. Even now, there’s this low thrum under my skin, like my whole body’s suspended in time.
“Well.” I clear my throat. “He got that glass of water he was headed for, kissed me on the cheek like a perfect gentleman, and said goodnight. Then, I fed Stripe and Shadow, crashed on his sofa, stared at the ceiling like a lovesick teenager, and came back here a little after sunrise.”
I leave out the part where I didn’t spiral. I simply let myself be happy. Progress that would make my therapist proud.
“Wait. Y’all tongue-wrestled and just called it a freaking night?”
“After agreeing to take things slow.”
“Slow.” Paxton draws out the word like he earns commission on single syllables. “Girl, please. Your year-long dry spell is ready to pack its bags for wherever celibacy goes to die.”
Of course, he went there. Paxton’s never had a filter, and he’s never needed one. He’s been calling my bullshit since braces and boy-band concerts, and somehow still knows exactly when I need it.
“We’ve got the next three months, Pax,” I say softly, mostly to remind myself.
“Then could there be a summer fling in the midst?” he teases, probably picturing a montage straight out of a 90s rom-com: slow-motion beach kisses, shared cotton candy at a carnival, and sunset make-outs in a borrowed hoodie. “You deserve something fun, and I’ve been rooting for this since your naked meet-cute.”
“That wasn’t really a meet-cute,” I say, fishing clean shorts from the wicker laundry basket.
“You’re right. That wasforeplay,” he quips.
“Ha-ha-ha. Aren’t you funny?” I twist my hair into a loose bun. “We’re not going from sensual kiss straight to an X-rated sequel.”
“Bor-ring,” he singsongs, then huffs, as though I’ve canceled his favorite show mid-cliffhanger. “Anyway, are you headed next door now?”
“Yep. Gotta report for afternoon kitten duty.” I swipe on lip gloss, then walk into a light spritz of perfume.
“Well, hurry,” he chirps, clearly delighted. “And maybe wear that sundress you pretend isn’t hot.”
Here we go again. Him and that sundress.
He visited me in England one summer, and of course, I wore it when we went to Camden Market. Paxton swore I nearly caused a three-bike pileup and declared it aglobal distraction risk. He’s been holding that stupid dress over my head ever since.
“It’s breezy, not hot.”
“Yourdelusionis what’s breezy. That dress? Heatstroke. Be sure to update me later. I’m now living vicariously through you.” I hear typing on his end, followed by a sharp breath. “Crap, I’ve got a meeting I should’ve joined eleven minutes ago. Talk soon.”
He hangs up, and I slip my phone into my back pocket, heart humming to its own soundtrack as I bounce downstairs.
Celibacy may already be packing its bags, but fear has booked a return flight.
Late-afternoon sunshine blazes high and unapologetic, casting sharp shadows across warm sand as I make my way next door.
Each step sinks deeper, flip-flops scraping through dry grains that crunch before soft earth gives way beneath me.
A warm breeze carries salt and charcoal smoke curling from Knox’s deck, rich with the scent of grilled something I can’t quite name but suddenly crave.
I press a hand to my stomach, hoping to calm the nervous flutter taking flight there.
No luck.
Because this time, I’m not only checking in on kittens.
I’m walking straight intowhatever this isbetween Knox and me, praying I don’t screw it up before I can even call us “complicated.”
Ugh. Why did one nasty relationship rewire me to always brace for impact, like disaster’s already in freefall, looking for a place to crash and burn?
A shriek of seagulls cuts through my thoughts, sudden and loud. I glance up as a flock wheels overhead, wings slicing the bright sky in a messy formation.
