Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75547 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75547 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
It helps. Not enough to stop the little gnawing thing inside me that wants to be chosen in a way that sticks, but enough to get me through the rest of the shift without making more of a fool of myself.
The rest of the day drags. Every ring of the phone is a jolt. Every time the door opens, my head jerks up, hoping and dreading. When the clock clicks over to five, my stomach is a knot.
The low thrum of a bike threads through the spa music a minute later. My bones know the sound. I stand, trying not to smooth my hair like a girl caught at a dance without a partner.
Trina catches my eye. “Breathe,” she mouths.
I try.
Kellum fills the doorway a beat later—leather, heat, the kind of presence that makes the air reorganize itself. His eyes skim the room, land on me, and something in his face eases that I didn’t realize was tight until our eyes met.
“Ready?” he asks.
I nod, throat suddenly dry. “Yeah.”
Outside, the evening light makes everything look gentler than it is. He holds out the helmet, like always. I take it, like always. But I don’t meet his eyes, and he notices because he notices everything. His hand hovers at my lower back, then drops.
“You good?” he asks because this is Kellum.
“Fine,” I lie.
He doesn’t push in the parking lot. He waits until we’re moving, until my arms are around him and the wind is our third party, until I’m a little trapped with nowhere to run from the question.
“What’s wrong,” he says into the air.
The knot in my stomach tightens. “Nothing.”
He snorts. “Try again.”
I press my cheek against his back and close my eyes. The words I shouldn’t say line up anyway. “Your ex came in today.” The sentence sounds petty, like a child reporting a playground sighting. “She said some things.”
“My ex, huh,” he retorts.
“Lana.”
“Lana,” he repeats and the fact that he doesn’t pretend otherwise is either comforting or horrible; I can’t decide.
“Yeah.”
He rides in silence for a long beat, choosing a route that keeps him from having to stop at lights. Finally, he seems to regroup. “What’d she say?”
I swallow. The jealousy tastes like copper. “That you’re the best sex of someone’s life.” I feel him tense under my hands. The admission makes my face burn even though he can’t see it because there is no doubt in my mind he probably is the best sex to everyone. Then I drop the weight that is holding me down. “And, that you’ll never commit.”
He breathes out through his nose, slow. “She’d know the first part yes.”
The bluntness stings and soothes at once. “And the second?”
“Not her business,” he says, and turns onto a side road that leads away from town. “And not something I need to share on a ride where I can’t see your face. You want to talk, we talk at home.”
The words settle somewhere between a promise and a warning. I hold on tighter than I need to until the familiar square shape of the house nudges into view and we roll into the drive.
Inside, the door clicks shut and the quiet spreads out. The map on the wall. The chair with the patched tear. The fridge that hums.
Home, somehow.
He sets the helmets in their place and turns to me, leaning his hip against the counter like he’s bracing a motorcycle on a kickstand, steady, deliberate, unhurried.
“Now,” he begins. “Talk.”
The knot that’s been rattling around inside me all day breaks open. It’s not graceful. “This is so ridiculous.” I open and decide well, I’m here, might as well lay it out there. “I feel stupid. And jealous. And I hate it. She asked if you were picking me up like it was a TV show she watches. I’m not trying to be your girlfriend,” I stop, because even if I mean it today, the future clicks its tongue. “I mean, I’m not trying to box you in. I get that you don’t do that. But then she said,” My hands fly up without permission. “She said you’re the best sex of someone’s life, and that you won’t commit. And I felt,” his eyes soften causing me to pause.
“Like you were in line,” he whispers quietly.
“Yes.” Relief streaks through me because he named it.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t make a joke to pop the bubble. He holds the space like a man holds a door in a storm.
“I know how dumb it sounds,” I push on. “We haven’t even slept together. You’ve been careful with me. Kind. Which is honestly the wildest thing of all.” I tell him sharply, with a humorless laugh. “It made me feel wanted in a way that wasn’t just body. And then she waltzes in and tells me a story about you that sounded like I’m an idiot for believing any of it.”