Page 96 of Ashes of Us
And I had no idea if that was progress or the end of everything.
I sat in my truck for five minutes, engine running, staring at the bakery windows. Watching her shadow move through the space while she locked up and turned off the lights.
I could have been in there with her. Could have pulled her close and found out if she still tasted the same, if we still fit together the way we used to.
Instead I was sitting in my truck in a dark parking lot, trying to convince myself that respecting her boundaries was the right thing to do.
It was.
It had to be.
But Christ, it hurt anyway.
I drove home and tried very hard not to think about the way she'd looked at me. Like she wanted to say yes but couldn't quite get there.
Like maybe, if I was patient enough, she might.
CHAPTER 37: PIPER
Icouldn't stop thinking about his hand.
A week since the almost-kiss and I could still feel the ghost of it. Hovering near my face, not quite touching, trembling slightly like he was holding himself back with everything he had.
Can I?—?
He hadn't finished the question, but he hadn't needed to. I knew what he was asking, and I knew what I wanted to answer.
And I'd stepped back anyway.
I rolled over in bed, punched my pillow, tried to force my brain to shut up. It was 5:15 AM and I had to be at the bakery in an hour. I needed sleep, not this endless loop ofwhat if I hadn't movedandwhat if I'd just let himandwould his mouth still taste the same.
The worst part? I didn't regret saying no. I regrettedwantingto say yes.
I'd spent eighteen months building walls. Eighteen months convincing myself I was fine alone, that I didn't need him, that I'd moved on. And he'd nearly demolished all of it with one almost-kiss in my bakery after closing.
My phone sat on the nightstand, screen dark. I hadn't heard from him since that night, but I hadn't really expected to. Liam was respecting my boundaries like he always did now.
Which was exactly what I'd asked for.
So why did it feel like loss?
I grabbed my phone, squinted at the screen. Pulled up my calendar to check today's catering orders.
November 17th.
My stomach dropped.
November 17th was his birthday.
I stared at the date for a full minute. The day I used to plan weeks in advance—reservations at his favorite restaurant, a cake from scratch, something thoughtful wrapped in paper he'd tear through like a kid on Christmas morning.
This year I'd completely forgotten it was coming.
I set my phone down, picked it up again, then put it back.
Texting him felt like... what? A step forward? A step back? A step somewhere I wasn't sure I was ready to go?
But ignoring it felt cruel. We weren't together, but we weren't strangers either. We were… something. And that something probably warranted a happy birthday text.
