Page 42 of The Heartbreaker Next Door

We drifted, silent for a few bars. Every nerve in me was tuned to the sound of her breathing, every micro-shift of weight, every brush of her thumb against my collarbone. I wanted to say something, anything, but all the words I could think of felt insignificant next to the warmth of her.

She broke the silence first. “You never feel the need to fill silences, do you?”

“I speak when I have something to say.” The explanation sounded harsh in my own ears, but she just grinned, like she liked that answer.

“Good,” she said. “I always thought dancing was less about words and more about—” She faltered, stumbling over a phrase she couldn’t quite finish.

I filled it in for her. “More about not letting the other person fall over?”

Her smile widened as her eyes searched mine.

“What?” I asked, suddenly feeling very exposed.

She shook her head slightly as she exhaled. “It’s like you’re determined to be the least romantic man in any room.”

I almost told her I didn’t mind being unromantic. That it was safer for both of us. Instead, I held her a little closer.

She went soft in my arms, her body melting against mine in a way that made me intensely aware of every place we touched. The air between us seemed to buzz, charging with something delicate and unstable. If I breathed wrong, I thought, I might break the spell.

I risked a glance at her, and she was already looking up at me, blue eyes wide and bright. There was something vulnerable in them, like she was waiting for me to say something that would ruin everything, and daring me not to.

Somewhere in the charged silence between us, I forgot the rules I’d been living my life by. Now the air thickened with something slow and hot and impossible to ignore. My heart tap-danced in my chest. I could feel the warmth of her hands through the fabric of my shirt, and every single nerve ending on my body staged a coup, screaming that it would be so easy—so stupidly, dangerously easy—to tip over the edge of whatever line I’d drawn.

“I have no idea what to do with you.” My voice was low, gravelly.

She was looking at me with this baffled, almost wounded expression, like I’d just handed her a box of puppies and dared her not to play with them.

“I make you uncomfortable,” she said lightly. “Mission accomplished.”

“No.” The word was heavy with meaning. “You make it hard to remember why I like being alone.”

I didn’t mean to lean in, but I did, pulled forward by the gravity that existed only between two people who know better and still played with fire. I could feel her breath, sugary from the s’mores bars and shaky with nerves, and I think my hands tightened at her waist before I could stop them. She didn’t step away, not exactly—she just braced herself, like she was debating whether to close the gap or run for the fire escape.

“Dean,” she said, and it sounded like both a plea and a warning.

I paused, my forehead brushing hers, and waited. I could have kissed her, should have, but something about the look in her eyes told me she needed to say the next thing out loud, or she’d self-destruct. The music faded, replaced by the distant laughter of the crowd and the crisp split of another beer can opening somewhere in the dark.

“I have a rule,” she said, voice trembling in a way that made me want to shield her from the rest of the world. “No relationships. Not until Maverick and I are stable. Not until after he graduates college.”

I could have argued, could’ve told her how amazing she was, how she already had the whole town rooting for her, how Maverick was happy and that meant she was clearly doing something right and nothing we did would change that. But I didn’t. Instead, I eased a step back, giving her space, even as my arms itched to pull her closer and finish what we’d started.

“Fair,” I agreed. “Rules are smart. Boundaries keep people from getting hurt.” Even to my own ears, it sounded rehearsed, like a script I’d been reading.

She tried to laugh, but it came out as a shaky exhale, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her cardigan. “You sound so professional, like my therapist.”

“Not my intention,” I said, and made myself smile. “But I can be professional, if that’s what you want.”

Her face fell, and it nearly undid me. “That’s not what I want,” she mumbled, looking at her feet. Then she glanced back up, blue eyes impossibly bright. “It’s what I need.”

There was a silence then, the sort that expanded to fill every corner of a barn and every cubic inch of unspoken desire. I could have reached for her again, but I didn’t. I just watched as she squared her shoulders, gathering herself piece by piece.

But then she did something unexpected—something that, in hindsight, shouldn’t have surprised me since everything she did was exactly opposite of what I’d expect. She closed the distance herself and pressed her lips to mine. Just once, quick and desperate, like she wouldn’t be able to breathe if she didn’t. Her hand landed on my chest, steadying herself, and then she pulled away so fast it left me off-balance.

She looked up at me, horrified at her own lack of impulse control. “We can’t do that,” she said, eyes wide. “Seriously. We can’t.”

I didn’t answer right away. I was still processing the fact that she’d kissed me first, and my body was several seconds behind my brain in catching up. “We already did,” I pointed out, voice low and even. “Twice.”

She made a strangled sound, halfway between a laugh and a whimper. “Right, well, we can’t do it again.”