Page 100 of The Summer We Lie

"Oh, by the way," she says, unclicking her seatbelt and leaning toward me conspiratorially. Her voice drops to a whisper. "I'm wearing the black one tonight."

My entire body goes rigid. The black plug. The largest one we haven't used yet. Fucking Christ.

Before I can form a coherent response, the valet opens her door. I watch, completely stunned, as she gracefully exits the car. Now her careful movements make perfect sense, and the knowledge of what she's done—what she's wearing for me—sends blood rushing south so fast I'm dizzy with it.

I exit on my side and move to her, wrapping my arm possessively around her waist.

"You're going to fucking kill me," I murmur against her ear, my voice rough with want.

Her only response is a smile so wickedly sexy that I seriously consider telling the valet to forget our dinner reservation and bring the car back immediately.

"So what are your plans after college?" I ask, trying desperately to take my mind off sex, her body, and the butt plug she's currently wearing for me. The effort is futile—every shift in her seat, every subtle movement reminds me of what's hidden beneath that dress.

Our server arrives with our entrees, placing them carefully before us with practiced efficiency. The interruption gives me a moment to draw breath, to attempt some semblance of control, but my awareness of what's beneath her dress hasn't diminished in the slightest. If anything, watching her maintain perfect composure while I know exactly what she's enduring makes the situation even more intoxicating.

"Well, Harper and I were going to move out here and get a place together," she says, twirling pasta around her fork with deliberate care. Her voice is steady, but I catch the slight hitch in her breath as she adjusts in her chair. "But that was before my parents split, so I'll probably just stay there, you know, so I can help my mom out."

The thought of her leaving hits me harder than it should. Pennsylvania. Three thousand miles away. The realization settles in my chest like a weight I hadn't expected.

"What about the money?" I ask, cutting into my steak with more force than necessary. "I mean, you can help her a lot with that and still follow your dreams."

She nods, taking a small bite, her movements careful and controlled. "Yeah, that definitely helps, but I don't want to leave her all alone now. Especially with Justin needing so much support. Mom's been carrying everything on her shoulders since Dad left."

"Yeah, I get it," I say, but really it's just dawning on me that she's going to be leaving at the end of summer. For good. The thought makes something twist uncomfortably in my gut. I don't like it. I like having her around, I realize with startling clarity. More than like it—I've grown accustomed to her presence in a way that should concern me.

"So I've been wondering..." she says, setting down her fork and fixing me with those wide eyes that see too much.

I arch an eyebrow in question, taking another bite to buy myself time.

"Whatever happened with you and Harper's mom?"

The question catches me off guard, though I suppose I should have expected it eventually. I set down my utensils, considering how much truth to offer. With Skye, I find myself being more honest than I'm comfortable with.

"We were just kids when she got pregnant," I say finally. "We decided to get married and raise the baby together, convinced we could make it work through sheer determination. But we never were really in love. I mean, we loved each other and still do, but it was never enough. Never the kind of love that sustains a marriage."

She watches me intently, her wine glass paused halfway to her lips.

"We stayed together for Harper," I continue, "convinced that was what good parents did. But we realized that wasn't the best thing for Harper or us. Kids aren't stupid—they know when their parents are just going through the motions. We decided to call it before the resentment could poison what friendship we had left. We're still friends, though. Good ones, actually."

She takes a slow drink of her wine, studying me over the rim of her glass. "Why haven't you settled down since then?"

"This is going to sound bad," I warn her.

She smiles, and there's something in her expression that makes my chest tight. "Try me."

"I like being alone. I like having my own space, controlling my environment, and I work too much for any reasonable woman to tolerate. Plus, I never wanted to confuse Harper when she was young—didn't want a parade of women coming and going through her life. And I think somewhere along the way, I became stuck in my ways. Set in routines that didn't include room for anyone else."

"Oh," she says softly, and I catch something that might be disappointment in her voice.

The admission hangs between us, honest and probably more revealing than I should allow. But then I look at her—really look at her—sitting across from me in that dress, in my space, making everything feel different than it has in years.

"But I like sharing my space with you," I say, the words coming out rougher than intended. "I like you sleeping in my bed and waking up to you. I like seeing you in my kitchen making coffee in your little shorts, I like finding your food in my refrigerator, I like discovering your sketches scattered across the dining room table."

The words keep coming, more honest than I've been with anyone in years, and I realize I'm saying too much, revealing too much. But it's too late—she's watching me with this look in her eyes, something soft and vulnerable and entirely too dangerous.

"You do?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I do." The simple words carry more weight than they should.