Page 86 of The Backup Plan

I kiss him back like I’m branding the moment into my memory. The taste of his kiss. The firm press of his body against mine. The broken, wrecked way he breathes my name against my mouth.

It feels inevitable.

Like something my body has known long before my brain can catch up.

And then fear crashes in.

Cold. Sharp. Unforgiving.

“No man wants a woman who loves her work more than she could ever love him. The fancy initials after your name don’t mean shit.” It’s Jared’s voice first.

Then Lucas’s from moments ago. “You’re always busy, Emery. I thought you were trying to live some.”

I press against his chest, trying to break the kiss. I can’t do this again. Can’t compromise who I am and what I want for someone else no matter how damn much I want this kiss. Want him.

“Lucas.” It’s breathless. Shaky. Uncertain. “Stop. We have to . . . stop.”

He does immediately but not without a groan that I feel deep in my bones.

His hands drop. His eyes search my face as my lips still tingle from his.

“I can’t do this,” I whisper.

He nods once—hurt and desire and confusion a mixture swimming in his eyes. “Okay.”

That single word somehow hurts worse than an argument.

“I’m sorry,” I say, stepping back, picking up my bag, and looking around out of fear. What did I just do? And in the one place it can’t happen? “I shouldn’t have. We shouldn’t have—”

“Emery.”

I pause, drop my head for a beat, but don’t turn to face him. “Congrats on the game,” I say quietly. “You deserved to have that.”

And then I walk away, hands shaking, his addictive taste still on my tongue. The feel of his fingers still burning my skin.

And for the first time since I told myself this couldn’t happen, I stop lying to myself.

The hardest part won’t be wanting him.

It will be seeing him across rooms, hearing his voice, remembering the feel of his hands on my skin, and choosing over and over not to let myself have him.

Lucas

I’ve got the hood up on my truck under a tree in the apartment parking lot. It’s hotter than hell, my knuckles are scraped to shit, and my head is somewhere else entirely.

The engine doesn’t need fixing.

I do.

It’s late enough in the afternoon that kids are out of school and riding bikes or playing in the nearby park. My morning practice has long since been over and given me enough time to second-guess more shit than I’d like to admit.

And revel in even more of it.

The high from the game and waking up without my shoulder throbbing.

And the memory of her mouth on mine—and then the way she stopped me like it mattered too fucking much.

I tighten a bolt I already tightened ten minutes ago.