Page 23 of False Start, Real Passion

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That night, the bonfire is as big as my uncertainty and just as hard to ignore. I sit on the outskirts, hair still damp from the lake and spirit still damp from the dock. Jaxon finds me easily. I make room on the bench, make room in my head, make room in the most dangerous place of all: my heart. He fills them, fills everything, with his steady warmth and endless charm. When his thigh presses against mine, the pressure ignites something between us, a flicker that becomes a flame. I let myself believe it’s more than a weekend illusion, let myself get swept up in the heat. It’s real, almost too real, when he kisses me. But then, maybe I’m not sure what real is anymore.

The flames crackle, sending sparks and anxiety into the night air. My shivering turns to something else entirely when Jaxon sits down beside me, closer than necessary. I pretend the cold is why I don’t scoot away.

“Still warming up?” he asks, his eyes catching the firelight, catching me. The woodsmoke clings to him, mingles with the clean scent of his soap. It’s intoxicating.

“Surprised you care,” I say, and I’m shocked at the vulnerability in my voice.

“You shouldn’t be,” he replies, quiet but certain.

He pulls me in, his arm warm around my shoulders, his nearness too big to ignore. Too big not to want. I let him. For a second, I let myself.

“You were pretty competitive out there,” he says, laughter hiding just below the surface.

“It’s not my fault you suck at paddling,” I reply, feeling more of myself return.

His chuckle vibrates through me. “Funny. You seemed more interested in drowning me.”

“Next time, I’ll succeed,” I promise, but we both know there’s no edge to my threat.

“Next time,” he repeats, the words a promise of their own.

I lean into him instinctively, forgetting why I shouldn’t. The heat of the fire, the heat of his body, the heat between us—all of it has me on the edge of something terrifying and exhilarating.

Then, of course, someone ruins it. “Truth or dare!” a teammate shouts, throwing a cold bucket of reality over my carefully maintained illusions.

The group takes up the call, demanding the game in a chorus of alcohol- and nostalgia-fueled excitement. I try to drown them out, try to ignore the inevitable.

“No escaping now,” Jaxon whispers, his breath a secret promise in my ear.

He tucks a damp strand of hair behind my ear, fingers grazing my cheek, leaving a trail of static and unasked questions. I wish I knew what his answer is.

I wish I knew what mine is.

My fingers clench in my lap, searching for the resolve I had earlier and finding nothing but more confusion. His scent, his presence, the magnetic pull of his confidence—it’s all around me, impossible to shut out. I’m losing the battle with myself and not sure I even care.

The truths and dares start out tame enough—embarrassing childhood stories, silly dance moves. But then Jaxon’s teammate, the one with the wicked grin and a reputation for stirring up trouble, points at us.

“Jaxon, truth or dare!”

“Dare,” he calls, unwavering. I should’ve expected it. Expected him.

“Get a room!” someone yells, and a burst of laughter follows. The irony isn’t lost on me.

I know what’s coming before it does, like a storm cloud forming on the horizon.

“Jaxon, I dare you to kiss your girlfriend. And I mean a real kiss, not some peck on the cheek.”

The noise settles, anticipation taking its place. My heart does something stupid, something dangerous, like I’ve already agreed.

Jaxon turns to me, a silent exchange more powerful than any words. I should say no. I should keep up the walls I’ve so carefully built. Instead, I nod, a barely-there admission that tears them down faster than he ever could. One hand comes up to cradle my face, fingers threading into my hair. The other settles on my waist, pulling me closer. And then his lips are on mine, warm and firm and devastating.

It starts light, almost tentative. But then he angles his head, deepens the kiss, and I’m lost. My hands come up to grip his shoulders, his hair, anything to anchor myself as the world tilts and spins.

My hands then find his neck, his hair, every bit of him I’ve pretended not to want, and my last piece of resolve snaps like dry kindling.

It should feel like giving in, but it feels like winning.

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