Page 54 of The Best Shot

He shoved his seat back and got his jeans open, and I brought my knee up and came the rest of the way into his lap like I’d planned it. Maybe some part of me had. He said my name once, low, almost a question, and I answered by sinking down on him.

After that, neither of us said anything that made sense.

It didn’t feel reckless. It felt like catching the light at exactly the right second, like I’d spent all night lying to myself and my body had finally called bullshit.

Inevitable.

Right up until the elevator doors closed and I was alone again, tasting him on my tongue.

Back in the kitchen, I dug out another forkful and chewed slowly.

What the fuck are you doing?

That was the real question burning under my skin. I’d been jealous tonight. Bone-deep, ugly jealous. I’d sat in a dark theater clutching a laminated menu like camouflage while Tabby dissected some woman’s body language and all I could think was mine.

Not in any sane, claimable way.

Just mine.

Did I like him? The question pulsed, louder than the TV murmur, hotter than the phantom press of his hand on my skin.

I liked the way his voice dropped when he said my name, and the way he kissed me tonight like he’d been starving for me and didn’t feel the need to apologize for it.

I liked him enough that standing there, in my own kitchen, with my pregnant sister-in-law asleep ten feet away, I could still feel the ache between my thighs and the stupid, reckless urge to text him two words: Come back.

I closed my eyes. Breathed once. Twice.

Of course you fucking like him, idiot.

Everyone liked Hale. He made it easy. That was sort of the problem, because I could like Hale and keep it neat. But what happened tonight didn’t fit neat.

Not the sex. Before that. Me, asking a question I had no business asking and feeling stupid, giddy joy when he answered.

He was Hale. Mr. Whitlock Hills. Knew every bartender and back road. He would probably die in this town, surrounded by folks who’d known him since he was in diapers. That wasn’t a criticism. It was just true.

And I was Yasmine, who kept not-quite-leaving, for reasons I’d never fully dealt with, and this wasn’t⁠—

My phone rang.

I picked up, my mind still in Hale’s car with my hands in his hair.

“Hello?”

“How could you do this to your brother?”

I blinked and the kitchen reassembled itself around me.

“Mama—”

“First you can’t be bothered to talk to Hale about a job. Now this.” Her voice was thick with tears, but hard too. “How can you choose that woman over your own blood?”

I moved down the hall and pulled the bedroom door shut behind me.

“She needed somewhere to go,” I said, keeping my voice low. “I gave her somewhere.”

“She has a husband and a home.”

“Mama—”