by Amelia Wilde
“Don’t hang up!” he says, loudly, and I hear him.
“What?”
“I’m not taking over for you. But if it’s too much for your hand, give me a call. I can help out for a couple of days.”
“I owe you one.”
He ignores my sarcasm. “I’ll let it slide this time. Just buy me a beer.”
“You haven’t done anything yet.”
“But I always come through for you, don’t I?”
This time, it’s my turn to laugh, a little fucking bitterly, and hang up.
My jaw tightens. Not one single person—
Well, what did I expect?
I toss my phone onto the passenger seat and put the truck in drive.
I can’t be with her.
I can’t leave her with that gaping hole in her kitchen, though, either.
I can’t want her like I do.
The only thing to do is suck it up and fix the damn thing, and then let her get back to her life.
Back to the life she has now, where I can’t hurt her. Ever again.
Chapter Fifteen
Lacey
The knock at my door comes exactly fifteen minutes after I text Crosby.
It’s almost five o’clock, the weather snappishly cold and the sun already done setting, and I move quickly toward the entryway. He’s got to be freezing out there.
I raced home as soon as things were under control in the ER. Nobody’s life from the crash was lost, but it had been a distinct possibility based on the seriousness of the injuries.
And I hadn’t reacted very well. On the inside.
I went through all the right motions—afterward, Dr. Howard said I’d done well—but my heart had slowed to a crawl, and a sick, tight feeling rose in my throat. When the patient, a sixteen-year-old boy, was finally stabilized, it felt like a Mack truck had been lifted off my spine. I always had thought, all the way through med school, that I’d always be able to stay cool under pressure.
Still, nothing was as bad as the moment mid-procedure, with Dr. Howard and I both working on the boy, when I’d wished Crosby was there.
It was the kind of weak-ass thing that I find almost unforgivable, especially in the privacy of my own head. What did I become a doctor for if I’m just going to crave a man when things get hard?
I pull open the door, and there he is, toolbox and plastic sheeting in hand, U.S. Army surplus jacket zipped up tight to protect him against the wind. His cheeks are pink from the cutting cold of the wind, but all I see is the blaze of his green eyes, the way his sinewy muscles work underneath his layers of clothing, as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other trying to stay warm.
I want more than a steady presence. I want to rip his clothes off right now.
“I—come in.” My cheeks are instantly aflame. It wasn’t even a full shift, and here I am, ready to blurt out the most embarrassing shit possible just because he shows up on my front porch.
I wrap my professional attitude around me like a cloak and shut the door behind us, locking the cold outside.
“Long day at the office?” he says into the silence.
I nod. “We had some accident victims come in right when I was scheduled to leave.”
Crosby shakes his head slowly back and forth. “And you didn’t get the hell out of there?” His voice is half admiration, half skepticism.
I shrug. “Couldn’t.” It’s not enough to describe the way my body had snapped to attention at the sound of those sirens, how my heart went right to those people on the stretchers, adrenaline spiking all the way down my arms to my fingertips. I live for those moments, even if I’m not willing to admit it out loud.
“I heard about that on the radio. They had to close the intersection.”
“It looked pretty bad from where I was standing, yeah.”
Crosby’s eyes start to travel downward, but he catches himself at the last moment. From where I’m standing right now, the view is damn spectacular. I can only think of one thing to improve it. Well, two things. We could stop talking about the patients at the hospital and move on to…other things. Any other things.
The look in Crosby’s eyes tells me he feels the same way.
He takes in a breath, and I watch his chest rise and fall heavily. He’s not nearly as wiry as he was in high school, when the new bulk of his muscles seemed odd, out of place. He’s grown into his body. He’s grown into a man.
Every inch of his body, if I had to guess.
“So you—” I sound breathless, like an idiot, and I try my best to steady my voice. “You have all the stuff you need to get started?”
He looks down at the toolbox in his hands, at the plastic sheeting, like he’s seeing it for the first time. “I can get started on the kitchen right now.”
The air between us hums with heat. I hear the innuendo in his sentence, delivered with a straight face, but I can’t let myself respond to it. If I do that, no matter how much I want him, then I’m opening myself up to another heartbreak. To more years of heartbreak.
The ache in my chest rises up at the thought of it, but it’s competing with a similar, sharp brand of pain. It happens whenever I imagine a future without someone like Crosby.
Without Crosby, if I’m being totally honest. And I’ve been living in that future for eight years. It hasn’t gotten any easier with the passing of time, either.
The muscles in my back tense. What would happen if I asked him about it right now? If I demanded to have it out with him, right here in my entryway?
I’m going to do it.
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
I try again.
“I’ll stay out of your way.”
He frowns a little bit, then nods. “Let me know if I’m too loud.”
I don’t know what he thinks he could be interrupting, but my heart is beating out of control. I take the stairs to the tiny second floor two at a time, freezing at the top, ears straining for any indication of movement.
He could follow me up here. He could put his hands on either side of my face and kiss me until he’s washed away all the years that are standing between us like a brick wall.
One footstep, then two, and my heart is in my throat.
But they’re moving toward the kitchen, and after another few moments, I hear the soft impact of the tool box hitting the wood floor, then the muffled thud of the plastic sheeting landing nearby.
I take three steps back, flattening against the wall, breathing in deeply. Crosby King is in my house, about to tear through the kitchen floor. About to rebuild what’s broken. But the thing that’s broken the most is my heart. It never repaired itself after that day. I just buried it beneath years of study and competition and medical training.
Before I can stop myself, I’m back in motion, bounding down the stairs. At the bottom, I pause just long enough to convince anyone who’s watching that I’m absolutely not running through the house, and then I stride down the hallway toward the kitchen like I’m about to walk into an exam room.
I have to tamp down the urge to knock on the doorframe. Crosby is standing in the middle of the kitchen, peering down at the damaged flooring.
“Crosby.”
He raises his head, looks into my eyes, his gaze cutting through to the core of me.
“Can we talk?”
Chapter Sixteen
Crosby
Can we talk? Fuck no. Talking is only going to lead us somewhere we don’t want to go. Lacey has to know that. Lacey has to know that any conversation we have—and it’s guaranteed to be about the past—is only going to make us circle around to each other again, and eventually it’s going to end. Badly.
And I want to do more than talk. Much more than talk.
I want my hands on her, and I want them on her the instant she reappears in the kitchen doorway, standing there in black yoga pants and a green top with a scoop neck showing off a creamy expanse of her skin.
The moment she opened the front door,
I wanted her.
The moment she stepped into the room in the ER, I wanted her.
“Are you sure you want to talk?”
Lacey bites her lip. She bites her goddamn lip, the fullness of it caught by her teeth. That’s where I want my lips to be.
Something in my gut twists. This is not going to lead anywhere good, for either one of us, but every step she took up those stairs felt wrong. This feels…
It feels like something else. Not right, but not wrong, either.
“Yes.” Her voice has gone soft, it’s almost a whisper, and she’s leaned back a little bit. It’s a far cry from how she came down the hall.
I move toward her a couple of steps, closing the distance between us until she’s an arm’s length away. I want to touch her so badly it hurts.
“About what?”
I can’t get the harsh edge out of my voice. It’s the only thing standing between me and a destructive spiral right into her arms. Lacey doesn’t flinch.
“I just wanted to know—” Her dark eyes flit off of mine to the wall beside her, just for an instant, and then she looks back at me. “I want to know what happened between us.”
“Nothing happened between us.” The lie is automatic, what I’ve been telling other people—if I tell other people—for the last eight years. It’s the lie I told Brett. It’s the lie I tell myself.
Lacey shakes her head, fire blazing in her eyes. “That’s not true, and you know it, Crosby. What happened? Why did you leave college?”
I open my mouth, but Lacey keeps talking.
“Why did you leave me? I was so in love with you. We were together for—” Her eyes are huge and dark and endless pools of the exact thing I’m desperate for, and something inside me snaps.
I step forward and put my hands on her arms, and then, in one smooth motion, pull her toward me. It’s not violent, but it’s not gentle either, and she draws in a breath that’s almost a gasp.
Then my lips are on hers, my mouth is covering hers, and her body tenses under my touch, then gives way. Those gorgeous lips part beneath mine, submitting, letting me in, but then her hands are on my chest, she’s pushing me away, turning her back to me, fingers flying to her lips.
“Crosby—”
I don’t hesitate for an instant. I turn her back toward me and this time I wrap my hand around the back of her head, tilting her face up toward mine, my fingers threading through her hair, and I look down into her eyes, our faces inches apart.
“I can’t fucking explain it,” I growl, the ache in my chest splitting into a thousand pieces. “I don’t have the goddamn words. I want you. I want you.”
It’s not quite the romantic declaration of love I’m sure she was hoping for—at least, that I’m sure some women would be hoping for—but something changes in Lacey’s expression. I don’t know which one of us moves toward the other one first, but I’m kissing her hard and she’s yielding to me, just like she always did.
It’s like I’m here and I’m in the past at the same time, kissing her up against the wall in one of the alleys downtown, just past dusk when nobody can tell it’s us, or nobody cares. She had this way of holding herself that told me how much she wanted me to fuck her, to take her, to make her mine.
The Lacey of the present lets out a soft little mewl that turns into a moan right into my mouth, and then her body moves, settling back into that position. I’m so hard against my jeans that it hurts. There’s nothing more in the world I want right now than to bend Lacey over—a bed, a chair, anything—and fuck her until she comes around my cock, her pussy clenching, crying out. I’d say anything. I’d do anything.
This is everything I’ve been missing for eight years. She tastes like fucking heaven, minty and warm, and her hair through my fingers feels as soft as it ever was. I run one hand down the side of her body, feeling the curves there. This is Lacey, the woman, and I left behind Lacey, the girl. I never imagined that I’d want her as a fucking woman so much more than I wanted her at eighteen. I was a stupid piece of shit for thinking that was the peak of my desire.
But I never really believed that, did I?
No.
“Oh,” she says, the word echoing into my mouth. “Oh.”
That’s what breaks me.
I pull back, ending the kiss, and now it’s my turn to whip around, taking two big steps back until I’m standing next to the ruined section of flooring.
“Fuck.” It’s under my breath, but I’m sure she hears. I’m breathing hard, and I can see from here that Lacey is trembling, her ragged breath making her chest rise and fall in rapid motions.
Her hand goes to her lips again, touching there, gently, and she looks down at the floor.
“Okay,” she says, the word a whispered plea, and then she gets herself under control, straightening up, her cheeks pink and hot. “Okay. I’m sure—I’m sure you don’t want me to stand here and micromanage you.”
At first, I don’ know what the fuck she’s talking about.
Right.
The floor.
I’m here to start work on fixing the kitchen floor.
“I’m good.”
“Yeah.” She takes in another deep breath, bottomless eyes flickering all over my body, and then slowly turns away, moving down the hall. “I’ll be in the living room if you need anything, okay?”
I need her.
Right now.
But I don’t say anything.
I just turn and pick up the plastic sheeting, shaking it out with one sharp crack.
Chapter Seventeen
Lacey
The plastic sheeting crinkles and snaps, and I stand in the living room like an idiot, touching my lips. They feel almost bruised from Crosby’s kisses, and the sensation is so familiar it brings tears to the corners of my eyes. We used to kiss that hard in high school. I used to wonder if my parents would notice.
I haven’t been to visit my parents yet, and I’m sure as hell not going to go now, even though it would probably make it easier for him to focus on his job and for me to focus on…anything but Crosby. It’s probably a bad sign that he’s all I want to think about, all I can think about. My mom and I carry on a running text message conversation, usually about her new hobbies (lately, painting). At the moment it’s more than a little slow-motion on my end, but I know they’re fine. Still, the same thought flashes to my mind eight years later. What if they can see the mark of Crosby on my lips?
What would it matter if they did?
I shake my head. I don’t want to risk it. My heart is beating so fast. My hands are trembling. If they ask me what’s going on, I might tell the truth.
That I’m still so, so into Crosby.
That I wanted to talk to him, but not as much as I wanted to kiss him.
More than kiss him.
And what was that, the way he pulled away so abruptly, like it was a waste of time?
I take in a deep, cleansing breath.
There’s just no way I can sit here in the living room. What am I going to do, read Little Women and gaze into the fireplace? I don’t even have a fireplace. The entire house seems overloaded with tension, like Crosby’s presence is taking up all of the free space.
Food.
Food is the answer.
My stomach growls.
I had an oatmeal from McDonald’s for breakfast a million hours ago, and men who work with their hands are always hungry. Crosby definitely works with his hands.
I grab my coat off the hook in the front entryway, sliding my wallet out of my purse and shoving it into one of the pockets. I don’t take a single step toward the kitchen. If I do, God knows what’ll happen.
“I’m going to get some food,” I call down the hallway. “Is there anything you—anything specific you’d want to eat?”
Crosby pokes his head into view through the door, plastic sheeting in his hands. There’s a playful expression in his eyes, but it’s masked in something else. Pain. “Anything’s fine. You don’t—” He stops himself
. “Anything’s fine.”
“Okay.” I give him a smile, but he barely returns it. “Back in a bit.”
Outside, the bitter air clears my mind.
Holy shit.
Crosby is so damn hot.
The heat in my cheeks insulates my face from the wind as I hustle toward the car. Behind the wheel, I stick the key into the ignition and turn the engine over, then turn the radio up.
Phase one of my plan, leaving the house without making out with Crosby, is complete.
But where am I going to go?
I’m hungrier by the second, which is making it harder to make a rational decision about what to pick up. I don’t really want fast food. Other than that, there’s a Mexican place, Cinco Amigos. There’s the Dockside…but they probably won’t be open this late in the afternoon. O’Malley’s, for burgers and beers. Although beers probably wouldn’t be the smartest idea, what with the both of us in a reckless mood and Crosby trying to repair the kitchen floor.
Crosby always liked…
What did he always like?
When we were still together, he was in high school and then starting college. Like most of the guys on the football team, he ate just about anything you put in front of him. It’s just that “anything” isn’t exactly specific enough to order on a menu.
I want to get it right.
Cinco Amigos is the first place I pass by on the way into downtown Lockton, so I pull into the parking lot. Inside, it smells like salsa and freshly baked tortilla chips, and my stomach goes hollow with hunger.
I order the fajita platter to go at the front counter.
It’s an enormous amount of food that comes in four separate styrofoam containers, and it’s ready in less than ten minutes. I leave them a pretty handsome tip.
As soon as I’m back in the car, doubt sets in.