Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 29299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 146(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 146(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
“That’s good.”
“She’s still part of this house.”
“She always will be.”
“And if you’re going to be here,” I continue, “it’s not as a replacement.”
Her expression steadies. “I don’t want to be.”
“You’d be part of something new.”
She nods. “That’s all I want.”
I brush a strand of hair behind her ear.
“You’re not competing,” I say.
“I never was.”
She’s right. She’s not competing with my past. She’s standing beside it. Honoring it. And somehow, that makes wanting her feel less like betrayal, and more like survival.
I pull her into my chest. She fits there too easily.
I stare at her for a long moment. Then I cup her face and kiss her forehead.
“And you’re not fighting a ghost,” I say.
“Good.”
“You’re fighting me.”
Her lips curve slightly. “I can handle that.”
I almost smile. “Careful,” I murmur. “I fight to win.”
She tilts her chin up. “So do I.”
And for the first time in a long time, the past doesn’t feel like a wall. It feels like something that made room for what’s next. And what’s next is standing in front of me. Steady. Unafraid. Burning bright.
Chapter 8
Tessa
The house is quiet in a way that feels dangerous.
Not empty.
Not peaceful.
Charged.
Lacee fell asleep an hour ago, her bedroom door cracked just enough for the nightlight to spill a thin ribbon of gold into the hallway. The dishwasher hums low in the kitchen. Outside, crickets stitch the dark together.
Sawyer stands at the sink, sleeves rolled to his forearms, rinsing the last of the plates from dinner. His back fills the small cabin kitchen. Broad shoulders. Tension coiled beneath cotton and skin.
I lean against the counter, pretending to scroll through my phone. I haven’t read a single word.
“You’re staring,” he says without turning.
I smile. “You have a sixth sense?”
“I’ve been stared at before.”
“By women?”
“By people deciding whether I look friendly.”
I laugh softly. “Do you?”
He shuts off the faucet and dries his hands slowly. “Friendly?”
“Approachable.”
He glances over his shoulder. His eyes are darker at night. Less guarded. “Depends who’s asking.”
I swallow. “I’m asking.”
He tosses the towel onto the counter and turns fully toward me. “You already know the answer.”
My pulse kicks. “That sounds arrogant.”
“That sounds honest.” He steps closer. Not close enough to touch. Close enough that the air shifts.
“You don’t think I notice?” he says quietly.
“Notice what?”
“The way you watch me.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “You’re imagining things.”
“I don’t imagine much.” His gaze drops to my mouth for half a second too long. “And I don’t miss much either.”
I push off the counter, trying to create distance. He blocks it effortlessly.
One step.
That’s all it takes.
He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t have to.
“You’ve been quiet tonight,” he says.
“I’m tired.”
“Liar.”
I inhale slowly. “You don’t get to call me that.”
“I do when I’m right.”
His voice is low. Controlled. But underneath it is something strained.
“Maybe I’m just thinking,” I counter.
“About?”
“You.”
Silence detonates. His jaw tightens.
“That’s not a safe topic.”
“I didn’t realize we were playing safe.”
“We are.”
His hand lifts slightly—almost touching my waist—then stops midair.
I feel the hesitation like a physical thing.
“Why?” I ask softly.
“Because this isn’t just about you and me.”
“I know.”
“You’re twenty-four.”
“And?”
“And I’m thirty-seven.”
“We’ve already done this math.”
His eyes flash. “This isn’t a joke, Tessa.”
“I’m not joking.”
“Then stop acting like the gap doesn’t matter.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It should.” His voice roughens on that last word.
“Because you think I don’t know what I want?” I ask.
“Because I know exactly what I want.” The way he says it makes my breath catch. “And that’s the problem.”
My heart pounds.
“What do you want?” I press.
He looks at me like he’s debating whether to detonate something.
“You. I keep telling myself it doesn’t matter what other people will say, but it does, Tessa.”
Every nerve in my body bursts into flames.
“You don’t get to say that and then step back,” I whisper.
“That’s exactly what I get to do.”
“Why?”
“Because if I don’t,” he says quietly, “I won’t stop.”
The air thins. My voice comes out softer than I intend. “I don’t want you to.”
His eyes darken instantly. He steps closer. So close I feel the heat of him through my thin tank top.
“You don’t know what you’re inviting,” he murmurs.
“Try me.”
His hand finally lands on my waist. Firm. Not tentative. My knees almost give. He exhales slowly through his nose like he’s trying to rein something wild in.
“Say it again,” he says.
“Say what?”
“That you don’t want me to stop.”
My throat goes dry. “I don’t want you to stop.”
The control in his expression fractures. His thumb presses into my hip, pulling me closer. Our bodies align. Every inch of him feels solid. Grounded. Dangerous.
His mouth hovers over mine. Not touching. But close enough that I feel his breath.
“You think I don’t fight this every night?” he asks.
“I don’t want you to fight it.”
“You should.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t do half measures.”
The way he says it makes my stomach flip.
“Then don’t,” I whisper.
His hand slides up my side, slow, deliberate. Not wandering. Not fumbling.