Page 98 of Against All Odds

“I’ll call Tom, our mechanic in town, and he’ll get it in to look at it. Didn’t think to put him on the list,” he jokes.

I shake my head. “Har har. Anyway, I can’t be without a car. I have to get to work and then home. I ... this is ... ugh!”

“I’ll take you to work, and pick you up to bring you home.”

“I can’t ask you to do that.”For so many reasons,I don’t add. He’s already done so much for me and I’ve given almost nothing in return.

“That’s what friends are for. Come on, get in the truck.”

I blow out a long breath, knowing there’s really not much of a choice when Everett wants something, and I get my things. I climb into the cab, thankful for the warm air, and put my hands in front of the heater. “I feel like it gets cold so fast here.”

“Dad used to joke that fall only lasted two weeks, so don’t blink or you’ll miss it.”

I smile, almost hearing his voice as Everett said it. “You sounded just like him.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he jokes.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve said a lot of nice things to you.”

“Name one?”

I laugh. “There are too many to recall.”

“You can’t even think of one.”

“Yes, I can,” I say, with a touch of petulance. “I’ve said you were a god in bed.”

Really, Violet? That’s the first thing you go to?

“Thinking about that night, are you?” Everett says, his voice low and husky.

I scoff. “Not for a second.”

Liar, liar, Violet’s pants are on fire.

How long is this car ride anyway? Shouldn’t it be like five minutes to school?

“I think that’s bullshit. I know you are.”

I turn, my jaw falling slack in mock indignation. “You do, huh?”

He’s right.

“I do. Your face is all flushed and you’re remembering, just like I do every night. When I close my eyes, I can see your face as you come. I can hear the moans you make when I’m between your legs. When I grip my cock, I imagine it’s your mouth sucking me deep in your throat. You think about it because it was, hands down, the best night of my life. It’s impossible to forget.”

My palms begin to sweat, and it’s not from the heat. What is he playing at? We agreed to ... you know ... not keep up whatever we were starting.

To pump the brakes while I try to get my life situated.

It doesn’t matter that I think about him all the fucking time. That each night I find myself at my window, pushing the curtains to the side and staring out at his house.

It doesn’t matter that when I lie in the bed he gave me, I remember his body against mine.

Or that I see his face when I close my eyes.

None of that is the point, because I might have to leave him.

It’s better this way—better to hurt and ache for him than to keep having him and then be completely destroyed if Dylan decides he wants to be in our child’s life.

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