That was the worst part.
I knew he wanted me.
I had felt exactly how much he wanted me pressed against my hip, my thigh, my stomach, while his breath went rough and his hands gripped like he was fighting a war against himself.
But he kept holding back.
Waiting.
Like he wanted something from me before he took all of me.
Not my body.
My heart.
Which was completely unfair, because apparently my body was reckless and ready to sign over property rights, while my heart had hired lawyers and refused all comment.
I had almost handed that heart to Tristan Vale after a few pretty looks and some late-night walks.
That was the part that made me feel stupid now.
I had been willing to bleed for almost.
But Drew?
Drew was real.
And maybe that was why I was terrified.
For the first time in my life, there was a man worthy of breaking my heart.
Not a fantasy. Not a prince. Not an idea my mother approved of because it made sense on paper.
Drew Travers.
Loud. Bossy. Ridiculous. Tender in ways he tried to hide behind arrogance. A man who cooked a grocery-store Thanksgiving with me in his father’s cold Miami kitchen and looked at me over mashed potatoes like I had given him back something he thought was dead.
Now we were at Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport with Christmas music playing overhead, my suitcase rolling behind me, Drew walking beside me in a black hoodie, gray sweats, and a backward cap like he had personally declared war on every father in Texas.
He looked too good.
It was offensive.
Airport fluorescent lighting should have humbled him. It humbled everyone. It made models look tired and toddlers look haunted.
Drew Travers looked like he belonged in an ad for expensive luggage and poor choices.
His hand brushed mine as we walked toward baggage claim.
I took it before I could think better of it.
He looked down at our linked fingers.
Then at me.
His mouth curved.
“Miss me?”
