Page 61 of Up in Smoke

But it isn’t a wrecking ball. It’s a rush of feelings that could easily be mistaken for a heart attack.

It’s not my proudest quality, having been with as many beautiful women as I have. If anyone knew the real number, they’d never look at me the same. Mesa damn sure wouldn’t.

But if my days playing the field have taught me one thing—it’s that none of those women burned nearly as bright as she does.

She’s the match, the flame, and the whole damn fire—I’m already close enough for the heat to singe my skin, and at this point, I’m afraid all I can do is let her burn everything I thought I ever wanted to the ground while I watch it go up in smoke.

I’m not sure I will, but if I ever changed . . . if my life took an unexpected turn that shifted the way I think about long-term committed relationships . . . I’d go after Mesa. I wouldn’t need time to think or to patiently work through available options.

She’d crush them all. She’d be the one.

I abruptly stop the video and roll back into my spot so that we’re no longer touching. In a perfect world, I’d pull her on top of me, and she’d melt into my body for the rest of the night without emotional consequences.

But that would only ever happen in a severely warped version of our current reality. One where I’m not worried I’ll never be good enough for her, and she isn’t afraid to give relationships another shot.

I wish I could tell her how I feel without confusing her. I wish I could slap myself and shoot my shot without pulling the pin on a hand grenade and chucking it right at our little bubble of complicated friendship.

Her tired sigh draws my attention, and I look over to see her rubbing circles over her temples. “Alright, giggles. Lay down.”

I pull back the covers until we scoot our way under them. She’s flat on her back at first, but I lift her hip and gently flip her over until she’s on her stomach.

“Ugh,” she groans. “It feels so good to lay down again. You wouldn’t believe how long I’ve been at my table staring at a computer today.”

“You’re giving Heston a run for his money for the most stressed-out friend award.”

My hand finds the tightest spot on her slender back, which is right between her shoulder blades. Slowly, my thumb pushes down and massages up her spine. She moans, and my eyes slam shut, as if closing them will hinder my ability to hear the sound.

Touching her, my self-control can totally handle. Listening to her moan is another story. The sound clings to me like campfire smoke.

“There’s an award for that? I hope I win.” Her voice is muffled from pressing the side of her cheek into my sheets. “Then at least I’d have something to show for the pain and suffering.”

“I’ll put in a good word with the voters.”

Her breaths deepen the longer I rub her back, and I can feel her tension melt away, little by little.

“Pour a bucket of ice water on me when this is over, okay?”

I smile. “Why?”

“Because your hand—” She sighs as I find another tight spot on her back and dig my fingers in deep. “Feels so good on me.”

I’m pathetic because that admission makes me pull my hand away. I can handle touching her, but knowing how much she likes it is going to lead to more than a damn massage. Mesa lifts her head and turns it toward me with an adorable frown.

Moving to my back, I lift the covers and slide my other arm under Mesa’s neck until she scoots into my side. At least this way we can fall asleep, and I won’t be staring at her back while each of her little moans threaten to end me once and for all.

Her nose burrows into my skin as she wiggles beneath the comforter. I tilt my head toward the ceiling, loop my arm around her upper back, and close my eyes.

“When are we going to talk about last night?” she whispers.

“I don’t know. I was kinda thinking we could ignore it for a while until we forgot it happened.”

Mesa knees my thigh, and I fake a pained grunt. Instead of putting her leg back down beside me, she rests it on top of mine.

“I’m kidding. We should talk about it,” I say, trying to keep an even tone that doesn’t give away how panicked I’ve been over learning how she feels about it.

She yawns and flattens her hand over my ribs. I almost laugh out loud at how fucking bizarre a relationship like this must look from an outsider’s perspective. It’s a good thing I’ve never cared about fitting into “normal” cookie-cutter standards. We do what we want, and she hasn’t complained yet about the cuddling, so I’m damn sure not going to, either.

“I’m tired. Maybe tomorrow after work, you can come over,” she suggests. “We can talk about it then.”

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