Page 27 of That Moment
“Too honest?” I ask, even though my heart is pounding out:I meant it, I meant it, I meant it.
He shakes his head, slowly. “Not honest enough.”
My laugh comes out shaky. “What would be honest enough?”
“Me telling you I’ve thought about it every day since the last time we kissed.”
Oh.
He leans in, not quite touching, and it’s almost worse than contact. “Me telling you if I kiss you out here, right now, you won’t be able to stay quiet enough for what I want to do to you.”
“Oh,” I whisper because it’s the only word that my brain can summon.
“And me telling you…” His gaze drops to my mouth and climbs back up agonizingly slow. “I want it to be somewhere I can take my time. Where you can make the kinds of sounds I’m dying to hear without your cousins putting it on the family chat.”
I swallow, or at least try to. “That’s… considerate.”
He laughs under his breath. “I’m considerate as hell, sweetheart. Don’t let it get around.”
The bench creaks when I shift, a sound too loud in the quiet bubble we’ve made. “So what do we do with this?”
He stares at the fire for a beat, jaw working, then looks at me—really looks. “What do we always do with it, Adrienne? Dance around it. Avoid it. Tease each other until the next best thing comes along.”
The truth lands low in my stomach. It’s been our pattern, or at least mine. Laugh it off. Pretend it’s nothing. Let time do the dirty work of forgetting.
“It doesn’t have to be that way,” I say, finally having the courage. “Maybe this time it’s different.”
His gaze drops to the slit of my dress like he can’t help it. He reaches out, slow, and runs his hand down my thigh, warm andpossessive, his fingertips tracing the edge of the slit before he squeezes, just once. Heat shoots through me; my breath stutters.
“Maybe,” he says, voice rough. “But let’s sleep on it.”
A protest climbs my throat. He squeezes my leg again like a gentle warning, and then he lets go.
“Tomorrow,” he adds, steadier. “We focus on the Mustang. See where that takes us.”
I swallow, nod. “Eight.”
“Eight,” he echoes, standing. He tips the bottle toward me like a salute, then leans close enough for his breath to skim my cheek. “Goodnight, Barbie.”
“Goodnight,” I manage.
He steps back, silhouette cut in firelight, and then he’s moving, long, easy stride through the crush of family, a couple of goodnights tossed over his shoulder, hat brim catching the glow. I sit there a moment longer, my thigh still tingling where his hand was, and savor the burn that lingers.
I showup with two coffees and a pink donut box, acting like last night is neatly folded and put away. The bay door is up, the radio low, the Mustang waiting with her hood open.
“Morning,” I say, setting the tray on the tool cart.
“Morning.” He nods, eyes on me for a beat longer than needed, then jerks his chin toward the car. “Let’s chase that idle. Grab the timing light?”
I pull the light from the lower shelf and step to the fender opposite him. We lean in together. He clips the lead, I route the cord, and the heat from his body bends around me like a second sun.
“Fire it,” he says.
The engine coughs, catches. A little high. He squeezes the trigger, white pulses strobing across his jaw. I pretend not to stare.
“Hold fifteen hundred.”
I feather the gas, watching him through the windshield. He listens with his whole body, hand on the radiator support, head angled, focused. It does ridiculous things to my body.
