Page 84 of Hard Pass

Gray morning light filters through the windows, soft and almost gentle enough to make me forget how violently last night changed things.

Almost.

Cole’s asleep beside me. He’s flat on his stomach with one arm tucked halfway beneath the pillow and the sheet riding low enough to expose the broad span of his back. He looks younger. Less guarded. And definitely less like the man who kissed me in the foyer as if he was starving and I was the only thing within reach.

Less like the quarterback with the world watching him implode.

And nothing like the man standing in the rain while his father tore him apart one insulting word at a time.

My throat tightens.

The peace on his face is almost unbearable because I know now how hard won it must be. How rare it probably is.

And how I’ve contributed to it in my own ways.

Get up, Dublin.

Instead, I watch him breathe. In. Out. Slow. Even. Easy.

My hand lifts before I can stop it, fingers hovering above the tanned skin of his shoulder, wanting to touch him for no other reason than because I can. And that I want to know if he feels as real in daylight as he did in the dark.

I don’t touch him though. It’s bad enough that I’m here and even worse that I stayed. Some part of me isn’t sorry. I pull my hand back and stare at the ceiling.

What have I done?

I close my eyes and sigh as the question repeats in my head. Not because I’m naive—I know exactly what I’ve done. I crossed a line I’ve never crossed before.

I slept with a man I’m investigating. The one I am supposed to assess objectively.

A man I told myself I didn’t trust while at the same time . . .

I wanted him. Want him.

This most definitely wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t one drink too many in Cabo and a bad decision made under vacation lights and borrowed courage.

This was sober. Intentional. This was me driving here to the point that when it came down to it—when every reason to walk away stood up and stared me in the face—I still chose him.

I press my fingers to my eyes. Decision made. I need to go. To get distance. To have space to think and shake him from my . . . everything. His touch. His kiss. His—

Just go. Stop thinking.

I shift carefully and inch my way out from beneath the sheet, doing everything I can not to disturb him.

This can still be managed.

That’s all there is to it.

I switch into business mode. More like self-preservation mode.

It was one reckless, impossible night that no one has to know about. And if I leave now, quietly, before this becomes anything more, then maybe I can put it back where it belongs. File it away under a lapse in judgment never to happen again.

Another glance at him and I know I’m lying to myself. Do you actually think you can forget this? Move on from this?

I sit up, wincing slightly at the delicious ache between my thighs.

Heat floods my face and body.

It was just sex. Just incredibly good, deliciously satisfying sex.