Which was why he’d looked her in the eyes and lied.
I don’t.
The words sat like a stone in him. He could still see her face when he’d said it—the way her chin had tipped up, the small, precise way she’d wrapped the silk tighter around herself.
He told himself he just had to want the life he’d built more.
In the hallway, with her pressed against him, it hadn’t felt like much of a contest.
He lay back without bothering to pull the covers up, staring at the dark ceiling until his eyes burned. Sleep didn’t come.
Not for a long time.
Every time he closed his eyes, all he saw was silk and the way she’d walked away from him without looking back.
* * *
Izzy closed her door and leaned back against it like it was the only thing holding her upright.
The room was dim, the bedside lamp casting a soft amber glow across the quilt and the old hardwood floor. Her breath still came too fast. Her skin still buzzed everywhere he’d touched her.
She closed her eyes.
“What are you doing?” she whispered to herself.
The farmhouse felt heavier now. No music drifting up from outside. No laughter. Just the faint tick of the hall clock and the memory of Grant’s mouth against her neck.
You have no idea the things I’ve been thinking about doing to you in this silk all night.
Something hot rolled through her so fast it made her grip the front of the dress tighter.
God.
She pushed away from the door and crossed the room on shaky legs, catching the edge of the dresser when her knees threatened to betray her entirely.
In the hallway, it had felt dangerously easy to forget herself.
The wall cool against her palms.
His chest against her back.
The rough scrape of his hand sliding beneath the silk.
Grant Scott had touched her like a man who’d spent days trying not to.
And that was the problem.
Not the attraction.
Not even the wanting.
It was how real it had felt.
Izzy sank onto the edge of the bed and pressed her fingers hard against her forehead.
“Bad idea,” she muttered softly.
But even now, alone in the quiet room, her body refused to agree.
