Page 89 of Hard Pass

Because I don’t want to.

Because if I’m honest with myself, if we were any other two people in the world, I wish he’d ask me to stay.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Dublin

The drive home is a blur.

Not because I’m not paying attention, but rather because I’m paying attention to everything.

The seams on the leather of my steering wheel. The jolt of the potholes. Anything to distract me from the faint scent of him still clinging to me. It’s on me. In me. Under my skin in a way I don’t know how to shake.

I even try cracking the window, hoping the cool air will clear my head and wash away the scent.

It doesn’t. Nothing does, because every time I try to think about anything else, I’m back to last night. His hands. His voice. The way he said he wouldn’t take it back.

Christ. You know how to make a man forget the bad by making him feel incredible.

I grip the wheel tighter. Focus, Dublin.

But by the time I pull into my apartment complex, my thoughts haven’t settled. They’ve only gotten louder and more impossible to ignore.

I park crooked, but don’t care to fix it. The second I step out of the car, my shoes squish against the pavement, water still trapped from last night. And of course, I’m just wearing Cole’s T-shirt, but the walk of shame to my apartment is short so I’m sure no one will notice.

Except.

Willa is standing there, arms crossed, eyes wide with a mixture of relief and anger. What the hell?

“Oh my God,” she says rushing toward me. “I thought you’d been axe murdered.” But she pulls up short as she takes in what I’m wearing. I can see the awareness slowly seep in as her expression shifts from disbelief to fury. “You disappear, don’t answer your phone and make me worried sick, and then show up wearing that and looking like you just got laid within an inch of your life?”

I wince as she bats a hand playfully at my arm.

“It’s a . . . situation.”

Willa freezes. Then it hits her what I just said. “Oh.” Another pause. “Oh. Oh. Oh.” Her hands go to her mouth like she’s trying—and failing—to contain herself. “You slept with him.”

I drag a hand over my face. “Don’t ask.”

“I didn’t ask. I stated.” She motions at me. “You told me with your whole situation going on here.”

I groan and brush past her toward the building. “I don’t have the bandwidth for this right now. I’m tired—”

“I wonder why,” she says, a smile in her voice as she falls into step beside me. “And you absolutely can. You vanish all night, show up in his T-shirt, and think I’m not getting details?”

“I can’t.” I unlock the front door.

“You mean you won’t.” She follows me inside.

“I mean I physically don’t have the capacity to process it yet.” I toss my shit on the washing machine off the kitchen and when I turn around, find her sitting at the counter there, her expression telling me I am not getting out of this one.

“Can’t process it yet. Hmm. Too good or too bad?” I shoot her a look and she grins. “Too good, then.”

I don’t answer, which is an answer enough.

“Jesus,” she murmurs. “Wow. We’re going to need coffee for this.”

“Already one step ahead of you,” I say, holding up a coffee pod and placing it in the machine.