Page 70 of High Water

He closes the small space that’s left between us then, his lips on mine before I can fully take in the motion, stealing my breath away in the process. My heart erupts into a staccato beat, racing just as fast and erratically as my thoughts.

I want him. I can’t have him. I need this man. And I should stay far away.

Rules were made for a reason. I can’t afford to fall again. I have to be the adult in this room, but I’m so desperate to be eighteen again, drinking whiskey out of the bottle and kissing each other like it’s our last night on earth.

Just like we are now.

I tear myself away, needing air so I can think straight.

He seems almost as shocked by his behavior as I am by mine. His hands lift from my waist, where he grabbed me and pulled my body against his.

“I should go.”

“You should go,” I agree, even though I hate to do it.

He takes one step back and then another, turning to grab the door before he pauses.

“Goodnight, Jones,” he calls back over his shoulder before he disappears into his own room.

I lock the door behind him. Because I don’t trust myself if I don’t have the reminder. We need the safety of the door for both of our sakes.

It’s a sentiment that lasts an hour and two heavy pours later. I’m nearly drunk on this whiskey. I haven’t even bothered to take off the dress I wore for the wedding. Apparently, I’m a lightweight, and these letters aren’t helping matters.

My head is spinning, and my heart has barely slowed since the kiss. Then there’s all of his history spread out in front of me. Page after page of it. Each one of them is a little more heart-wrenching than the last. But I can’t help myself. I’m speeding through them, desperate for every little morsel of the old Bishop I can get, wanting to understand him, and wanting to know the person he was when we didn’t talk.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Bishop

I’m still awake, flipping through the TV and my phone, wondering if she’s asleep in her room or if, like me, she’s lying awake with no chance of sleep in sight. I even contemplated going down to the casino or the bar, but then I’d have to explain why I wasn’t spending my entire night in bed with my wife. I’m still mid-thought on alternative options when there’s a quick rap of knuckles against the door that separates our rooms.

Am I so tired that I’m hallucinating?

“Bishop? Are you awake?” It’s definitely Aspen’s voice, and if this is a dream, at least I get to see her for a little while longer.

When I open the door, she’s there in the flesh, still in her dress, carrying a full glass of whiskey in her hand as she waltzes in. But this Aspen is a different one from the one I said goodnight to over an hour ago. I can tell from the sway of her hips and the look in her eyes that I’m in for trouble.

The amber liquid sloshes up the side, nearly cresting the rim as she dodges around me and deeper into the room. There’s a robe hooked over her arm and a piece of paper in the same hand. She doesn’t say a word at first; she turns to me as her eyes flick over my body in assessment before she holds up one of the letters from the stack I gifted her.

“We need to talk about this. But first…” She turns back to me, tossing the black robe onto the bed and taking another sip of her drink before she sets it on the desk. “First, I need help getting out of this dress.”

I stare at her speechless for a long moment before she looks back at me over her shoulder and raises a brow. She must see the question written on my face because she makes a sharp noise at the back of her throat and shakes her head.

“Not like that. I just can’t reach the zipper.”

“Oh.” I let out a breath. I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or relieved. I know this Aspen, and any wrong move with her in this mood will get you eviscerated.

I step forward and gently brush her hair off her shoulders. She’s taken it down from the loose updo she had it in earlier, and it’s falling down her back in cascading waves of dark chocolate, little highlights of a deep-red cherry color glimmering in the low light of the lamp. My fingers go for the zipper, and I have to let out a slow breath as I pull to keep my hands steady.

When I reach the bottom, she shrugs out of the shoulders and lets the bodice drop before shimmying free of the skirt and stepping out of it. It’s then that I notice her bare feet on the carpet; her pedicure matches her manicure in a shade of red so dark it’s almost black. It’s her favorite. Understandably so. It sets off her bright-green eyes, the same as emeralds. The neatness of her nails only distracts me so long, though, before the matching set of lace panties and bra draws my eyes back up.

Fuck me. She picked the red.

“Don’t look at me while I’m getting dressed. It’s rude,” she scolds me, her lashes fluttering as she gives me another cutting look over her shoulder.

But I take one last look at the lace that lines the curve of her cheek before I tear my eyes away. It’s worth it to have her rip me to shreds to get a final look of something I’ve craved for more than a decade. But it disappears quickly behind the black silk robe as she aggressively knots and bows the sash at her waist and snatches her whiskey back up off the desk before sitting on it.

“Sit,” she demands, using the tips of her toes to push the chair back in my direction, and gesturing toward it with her glass.