Page 81 of Good Graces

I blink hard, my vision swimming. He’s shouldering the blame, taking ownership for his part in the breakdown. And even though I know it wasn’t his fault—that I made choices I can’t take back—it’s still nice to hear him say it.

“I kept telling myself you didn’t want me to try,” Warren continues. “That if you’d wanted me to understand, you would’ve said something. But . . . I know you were just scared.” He swallows. “And I get that. Because I was scared, too.”

His voice breaks a little on the last word, and something splinters inside me.

“You don’t have to carry that. The burden of the blame.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I should’ve tried harder. I should’ve fought for you, even when you didn’t know how to ask.”

My breath catches, raw and uneven. For a second, I can’t speak. I just look at him—really look at him—and wonder how we ever let it get this far. How we ever let each other go.

“I was really scared,” I say quietly. “I still am.”

He huffs out a laugh. “I am, too. I didn’t expect to see you again this summer. Really didn’t want to, actually. It threw me for a fucking loop.”

“For someone who claims they didn’t want to see me, you sure spent a lot of time watching my every move.”

He snorts. “It’s hard to look away when someone’s constantly running their mouth.”

“Yeah?” I tease. “And you’ve always been such a ray of sunshine.”

“Don’t act like you’re any better.”

His grin widens just a little, and it’s like we’re still those two sarcastic, stubborn teenagers who spent half their time bickering and the other half tumbling into a kind of love that didn’t need explaining—just room to grow.

“I’m delightful,” I say.

“Yeah, okay.”

I don’t see it coming. One second, he’s shaking his head at me, and the next, he’s pushing me back, his hands firm but careful as he rolls me over in the grass. His weight settles against me, broad and solid, all muscle and heat. Familiar in a way that makes my chest ache.

“Jesus, Warren!” I sputter, half laughing, half startled.

“What?” He braces himself over me, arms locked on either side of my head. “You’re the one talking shit. Thought maybe you needed to be humbled.”

“And what’s your plan for that?”

His gaze drops to my mouth. “Haven’t decided yet.”

His breath ghosts against my skin, warm and slow. He’s so close that his stubble scrapes along the side of my jaw. The weight of his hips pins me down, grounding me in place, and my pulse stumbles as his mouth dips closer, just shy of my throat.

“Warren,” I murmur.

His mouth brushes the curve of my neck, and my breath shudders out of me, shaky and uneven. “Tell me to stop. If you want me to stop . . . just say it.”

I don’t. I can’t. Instead, I arch into him, my fingers sliding up the back of his neck, tangling in his hair. “Don’t,” I whisper. “Please don’t stop.”

And then he’s kissing me with no warning, no hesitation. Just the rough slide of his mouth against mine, like he’s been holding back for too long and can’t anymore. Something inside him has snapped, and I’m the lucky recipient of all that pent-up want.

I gasp against him, fingers curling into his shirt before I can think better of it. He shifts, settling more of his weight against me. His hand slips beneath my shirt, fingers skating up the bare skin of my waist, and heat blooms low in my stomach.

I feel the press of his hips against mine, the hard, unmistakable evidence of just how badly he wants this—wantsme—and it makes my head spin.

“Warren, baby,” I mumble against his mouth.

He makes a low sound—half growl, half groan—and drags his lips down my jaw, his breath warm against my skin. His hand skims higher, thumb grazing the edge of my bra, and I swear my pulse trips over itself.

“Quinny,” he mutters against my skin, voice frayed and uneven. “You’re gonna kill me.”

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