Page 13 of Every Heartbeat After

She laughs, and it’s more genuine than anything I’ve heard from her today.

“That’s the Southern upbringing in you. Thought it would’ve died off by now.” She bends at the waist, arms crossed over her chest, to peer into my vehicle. I’ve abandoned the cruiser in favor of my new Hellcat, an investment that was mostly wasted since I hardly ever drive it anywhere. The corner of her mouth ticks upward, and I feel the overwhelming urge to kiss her right at its bend. “Is that a milkshake?”

Not what I was expecting her to say. I glance down at the cupholder. “Yes?”

“What flavor?”

“Are you shopping or judging?”

She laughs again. It’s by far my favorite prize. I’d exchange every medal I earned in the Air Force for its weight in Tess Monroe’s laughter. “You can tell a lot about a man by his taste in milkshake flavors.”

I grimace, letting my head fall back against the seat dramatically. “Now feels like a terrible time to mention it’s vanilla.”

Her spine straightens, and she throws her head back, shoulders shaking as she really gives the laughter her all. I force myself to hold my position, but inside my heart beats rapid-fire. The wind presses her dress against her body. She’s all curved silhouette, long, golden legs, and shoulder-length blonde hair whipping in the breeze. I’m nothing but tense muscles, with a hard-on pressing into gym shorts that don’t do enough to obscure it.

So of course, that’s when she accepts my offer.

“Only if you’ll share the rest of the milkshake,” she says.

I shift in my seat, sending up a prayer for the first time in forever just to ask God to hide my boner. “Not afraid of cooties?”

She shrugs. “Not yours, anyway.”

As she passes in front of my headlights, the wind picks up, nearly losing her the coverage of her skirt. I’m completely enraptured, most likely drooling, when she makes it to the passenger side and steps in.

The space around us is suddenly too small, with not enough air. I roll down the passenger window too, creating a cross breeze that carries the scent of sunscreen from her skin. Before I’ve even crossed back over to the correct side of an otherwise empty street, she’s wrapping her lips around the straw of my milkshake and hollowing out her cheeks.

I’m gonna get blacklisted for the content of my prayers.

She smacks her lips softly and hums her satisfaction, lifting the cup in her hand to study it like it’s an ancient tome rather than a fast-food beverage. Gold rings decorate each finger, some stacked three high and others adorned with gemstones in various shades of blue. “Not bad for vanilla.”

“Vanilla is a wonderful, versatile flavor,” I utter through a tense throat.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch her smirk. “Spoken like someone who hasn’t branched out with his flavors enough.”

“I’ll have you know that I’ve sampled many a flavor, thank you very much.”

“Oh, I’ve heard. Your reputation precedes you, Kit Llewellyn.”

Fucking Zoey, I swear to God.The Horseshoe Inn appears on our left, but I’m not about to leave this conversation where it’s at. “Permission to keep driving so I have time to defend my honor?”

“Permission granted.” She offers the milkshake to me, and I take a sip, forcing myself not to consider the overlap of our lips on the straw. “Though there’s no need to defend yourself. I don’t believe in shaming others for their sampling of the sundae bar, you know?”

I relax a smidge. I don’t know why I even care. My ex and I started dating when we were only twenty, but in the years since our divorce, I’ve made no secret of mysamplingas Tess calls it. It’s not like that with her, though. And for some reason I want her to know I see her differently, even if I don’t fully understand it myself.

“Good to know.” It’s dark out, the only light in the cab coming from my muted radio. I turn onto the county highway that’ll carry us to the next town over. She doesn’t complain, just goes on sipping. And I can’t get her lips out of my mind for the life of me. If I’m going to have any hope of playing it cool, we’ve got to change the subject. “What’s your favorite ice cream flavor?”

She quirks a brow. “Is that a euphemism?”

“No!” I shoot her a stunned glance. Mischief glints in her gaze. She’s fucking with me. “Were you specifically sent to torture me?”

Her facial features still. When she speaks again, her voice is low. “Am I? Torturing you?”

I swallow. Something like pleading laces her tone. I recognize it as the same kind I keep buried deep inside, the one that wants someone,anyoneto tell me that my company’s worth keeping. Why does it feel so close to the surface tonight?

“Not at all.”

She sighs. I’m not sure if she’s satisfied or has just decided she doesn’t want to continue down this path in conversation. Either way, she leans back against her seat and shifts her gaze toward the darkened window. “Where are we headed?”

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