Page 69

For so long, I thought I was escaping my life, never stopping for a second because I didn’t want to think about Mom or everything she missed out on when she died so fucking young. So fucking young after working her ass off all her life. She was so close to finally resting and enjoying retirement. Peace and quiet. All the plans Riley and I had made to take her on vacation and help her discover all the world has to offer. But it was all taken away from her. Just a few years, and she would have made it. Would have reaped the rewards of the hard life she led so her daughters would need for nothing.

It all went to waste.

On the day of her funeral, people had the audacity to offer Riley and me “thoughts and prayers.” Prayers for what? To whom? What kind of divine being would take a mother’s life after she gave everything she had to raise her daughters all alone? And when she’d come so close to enjoying the rest of her life? It all felt like some kind of twisted joke.

I struggled to be by myself for a long time after that. I struggled to believe in anything, to find purpose in life without my mom to show me the way. Burying myself in work helped. Kept me halfway sane.

Until it didn’t. Until I realized I was still missing something else. Until I found myself in the same room as Oliver Reynolds. Until I got closer to him over the past few days than I ever thought I’d be.

I was chasing after the person I was when I had you. I was chasing the happiness I knew with you.

The words I almost uttered out loud keep resonating in my mind.

I don’t know what it is about him. Why I feel so serene when he’s next to me, like his mere presence is enough to soothe the incessant din of my thoughts, the restlessness in my bones. I don’t feel the tug to run to the next adventure when he’s next to me, or, at least, it quiets down to a faint, distant hum.

And right about now, while Oliver is getting the sleeping bag ready, I could use his logical and rational mind to calm my electrified nerves. I don’t know if I’m anxious, excited, annoyed, or a freaking mix of all the above, and I need something to calm me down.

“Did you say something?” Oliver stops, looking over his shoulder.

“Huh?” Shit, did I panic out loud? I can’t let him see me like this. I need to be cool, calm, and collected. I take a deep breath. “So, um, how do you want to do this?”

Oliver studies the sleeping bag, as if trying to Tetris us in without too much contact. He rubs the nape of his neck. “Um . . . I guess you’ll sleep on your right side so your ankle can stay out and elevated. I’m not sure we’ll both fit on our backs, though.”

Color stains his cheeks, and I can bet loads of money mine are the same hue.

I look down at my bare legs. “Is this okay, or do you want me to put my pants back on?”

His gaze darts to my thighs. “No, it’s, uh . . . it’s fine like that,” he says thickly. “Your pants are still drenched anyway. You wouldn’t be comfortable, and I’d rather have you half naked instead of soaked.”

I snap my widened eyes to his. “What?”

“That—that’s not . . . That’s not what I meant,” he splutters, horrified. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

He mumbles “oh my god” a few times, loud enough for me to hear.

I chuckle, despite the heat coursing in my veins. What would I have done if he’d whispered that in my ear while his full weight was on me, his hands exploring my body?

Another kind of warmth rushes through me, this one heavier, lower. I can’t believe I haven’t had a proper orgasm in, what, a month now? God, tonight is going to be torture. The magnitude of it hits me full force, and I try not to dwell on it, even though it’s not a stranger I’ll be pressed up against all night but Oliver. My Oli.

“I know what you meant. Don’t worry about it. But I’m sure soaked isn’t a bad thing either in the right circumstances.” I wink but immediately regret my poor attempt to lighten the mood when his gaze turns absolutely feral.

I yawn a bit too loudly, but he gets the hint.

“Let’s get some rest,” he manages to say, sounding like he could use some water. “Is that okay with you too?”

He gestures to his pantless legs. He wears only a shirt and boxers that leave very little to my imagination.

I nod. “Yep. Sounds good to me. Perfect.”

I avert my gaze and start scooting to the right side of the sleeping bag, but I hiss when my foot touches the floor.

“Stop, you’re gonna hurt yourself.” Faster than it takes for me to protest, Oliver is at my side, sliding one arm beneath my knees and the other around my waist. Next thing I know, the side of my face is pressed against his chest, his musky scent making my head spin. A second later, he drops me gently onto the other side of the mat.

“Thanks,” I whisper.

“No problem.” He motions for me to slide in.

Careful not to bump my foot again, I gently fold the material on top of me, keeping my ankle out on the edge, and turn. “Front or back?”