Page 42 of That Moment
How my whole body remembers the feel of his breath against my mouth, the smell of oil and soap and heat. The low growl of his voice.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but that just makes it worse. I see him instead—the garage light painting his shoulders, the tension in his jaw right before he kissed me. That careful, devastating first brush of lips. The sound he made when I opened for him.
I grip the edge of the desk, breath unsteady.
It’s stupid, this obsession. I tell myself it’s just physical, years of built-up tension, proximity, nostalgia, but the second I picture his face, the thought burns through every excuse I’ve made. Because it isn’t just physical anymore.
It’s the way he laughs with my brothers. The way he still opens doors even when I tell him I don’t need him to. The way he looks at me like I’m more than just another notch in his belt.
Axel’s wrong about that. I am different than the others.
And worse, so much worse, I can see it. The future my brain shouldn’t even be imagining: mornings at our kitchen table, grease on his forearm and coffee in his hand; his truck parked in my drive; a kid with his eyes and my temper running barefoot through the yard.
My stomach flips, panic tightening in my throat.
What are you doing, Adrienne?You don’t even know if last night meant anything to him.
Axel’s voice creeps back in, smug and knowing. “You and every other woman in this town.”
I shove the contract aside and press the heels of my palms to my eyes. “It’s just a crush,” I whisper to the empty office. “It’s fine. You’re fine.”
But it doesn’t feel fine. It feels like falling face-first into something I swore I was too smart for.
By the time the building empties out, the sun’s slipped behind the ridge, leaving the office washed in orange light. I should go home. I should eat something that isn’t sugar or caffeine.
Instead, I pull up the same document I’ve read three times and pretend to work while my mind runs loops around the same question:what if Axel’s wrong? What if Scotty isn’t the guy everyone assumes he is?
But then, I can’t help but wonder… what if he is, and I’m just willfully ignorant, setting myself up for failure?
The thought twists in my chest like a dull ache. I hate the way it makes me feel small, like I’m already the next name on some invisible list of women he’s charmed and left behind.
When I finally shut down my computer, the clock says almost nine. The parking lot’s empty, the world quiet.
I should turn right. Head toward town. But my hands move before my brain decides, guiding the wheel toward the long back road that snakes past Scotty’s place again.
It’s a bad idea. I know it’s a bad idea.
But I tell myself it’s just curiosity. Maybe he’s sitting on his back porch right now, wondering the same questions I am. Maybe I just need to see him and get this stupid tension out of my system.
His house comes into view, but it seems like no one's home. The porch lights off, windows dark. No movement. No shadowy figure under the light, bent over an engine, or silhouette behind the curtain.
My chest sinks.
He’s probably still at the garage, working late. That’s what he does when he’s thinking, he stays busy just like me. Keeping his hands full so his heart doesn’t have to be.
But another thought slips in, uninvited:Or maybe he’s out with someone.
I hate how quickly that thought comes to mind, even after he told me he wasn’t on a date the other night.
Without thinking, I swing my car around and head toward town. The road hums under the tires, the air thick and heavy through the cracked window. By the time I reach Main Street, my pulse is racing again.
The garage sits dark at the edge of the lot, bays shut, lights off. Empty.
My stomach sours.
He’s not home. He’s not here. So where is he?
A bitter little voice whispers back Axel’s laugh from earlier.
