Page 130 of Things I Wish I Said
“You asked me why I kissed you.”
I nod, my resolve to keep him at arm’s length crumbling.
“I kissed you because I couldn’t stand another second of pretending I didn’t want to. Because watching you flirt with Cameron drove me fucking crazy. Because when I touch you, everything else fades away. All the shit in my life feels bearable. Like I can move forward as long as I have you. Simply put, life is just better with you in it.”
A sob escapes the back of my throat, and then his mouth is on mine, and he’s kissing me like his life depends on it. Like we’re the last two people on the face of the planet and the world’s existence depends on us. Like he is the Earth and I am the moon, just caught up in his orbit.
Butterflies take flight in my chest.
My toes curl.
The pulse drumming inside my ears reaches an ear-splitting decibel.
His mouth slants, his tongue brushing against mine as his hand tightens around my waist, and I’m hit with the scent of leather and cinnamon, bringing me back to his bedroom the other night when I sat there and promised myself I’d help him.
Losing his father nearly broke him. I’d hate to think of what losing me only a year later would do.
I place a hand on his chest and push him away.
The breath rasps in and out of my lungs as I come back down to earth, staring into gunmetal gray. “I thought you didn’t believe in love and happy endings?”
“Ibelieve in you.”
My stomach twists. “But I’m . . . Grayson, we both know how this ends. You can’t . . . I can’t . . . I don’t want to hurt you, and it’s not like I have any control over my outcome.”
Grayson brushes a thumb over my cheek, his expression sober as he gazes into my eyes. “I’m well aware of what this would mean, Sinclair, and I don’t know what the future holds any more than you do. But I do know I want you in it, no matter how long or short that is.” He presses his lips to mine, and I shudder. “I’m all in, Ry.”
Chapter twenty-nine
RYLEIGH
“I think it’s time.”
Grayson glances at me over his ice cream cone, his gaze steady. “You think your mother will say yes to the trip?”
“She has to.” I sigh. “I won’t accept any other answer, even if it means I have to push the envelope.”
His eyes, more blue than gray in the midsummer sun, search my face. “Meaning?”
“I’m eighteen. She can’t stop me from going. I’d rather do it with her approval, but I also don’t need it. I told them weeks ago I’d be there to accept the award, and I have zero intention of missing it.”
He nods, staring straight ahead, his ice cream forgotten as it drips down his hand. “Actually, I want to talk to you about something.”
My stomach churns. It’s only been a few days since we played truth or dare at the lake, and ever since, I feel like I’ve beenwalking on egg shells, waiting for this to crack and for him to realize he was simply caught up in the moment. Regret is a funny thing; it can sneak up on you without foresight.
“What is it?” I ask. Gripping my own cone tighter, I straighten in my seat, staring out at the empty soccer field.
“I’ve given this a lot of thought, and . . . well, I want you to let me pay for your trial.”
My head jerks, a furrow in my brow as I open my mouth to speak, but he gets there first.
“I know how you are, and so I know the last thing you want to do is take my money, but my family is loaded. We have more money than we’ll ever need. I can do this and it would be a drop in the bucket, nothing compared to the potential reward of saving you.” He turns to me then, his expression earnest. “I want to do this, Sinclair. Please. Let me help you.”
I suck in a breath, so caught off guard, I’m at a loss for words. “I . . .” I swallow and glance away from him. The field stretched out before me is lush and green. I know exactly how it feels beneath my cleats, the way it smells, and how far I have to run to score a goal. “I don’t know,” I hedge.
I don’t want to take money from him. The second I do, what we have turns into something different. I like that neither of us should want this, yet we do. We’re both here freely. But if he helps me with money, that changes things. It feels obligatory and codependent. He’ll be just another person I’m dragging down, another debt to be paid.
“Sinclair, my mother comes from money. Yeah, my father was successful, too, but she had money long before she ever met him. I could probably pay your mother’s debt with my trust fund and not bat an eye, barely notice a difference.” He pauses, his gaze burning a hole through the side of my face. “Let me do this.”
