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Suddenly, his head drops, forehead resting against mine, his breathing ragged.
“Not here,” he mutters, his voice frayed at the edges. “Not in this fucking truck.”
I nod. My pulse is still sprinting, lips swollen from his kiss, body thrumming with need. But I see it in his eyes—that wild intensity, the restraint costing him everything.
“Let’s get your car to the shop,” he says, voice rougher than before. “Then we’ll talk.”
But with the way his gaze drags down my body like a slow caress…talking might be the last thing on either of our minds.
twenty-two
. . .
Beau
Ibring Whitley back to my place after dropping her car off at the shop. She settles onto my couch, barefoot, her legs tucked beneath her, while I take a quick shower. When I come back out, she’s still right where I left her.
When I pulled up to her broken-down car, her cheeks were flushed from the sun, strands of hair were stuck to the side of her face, and sweat glistened on her collarbone. She looked like sin and strength wrapped in one stubborn, breathtaking package. When she climbed into the truck, I definitely didn’t miss the way her dress rode high up her thighs.
This wasn’t my first roadside rescue. I’ve pulled up to plenty of women mid-meltdown, stranded on the side of the road. I’ve learned to brace for it.
Whitley didn’t do any of that. Didn’t complain once. Instead, she cracked a joke while petting a damn savage donkey.
She shouldn’t even be here right now. She should’ve told me to fuck off when I kissed her. But at the same time, she called me when she needed help. And that might be the cruelest mercy I’ve ever been given.
I really need to be at the shop right now. I’ve got cars stacked up, clients waiting, parts to order. But all of that can go to hell because she’s in my house, wearing my sweatshirt, curled up on my couch.
I drag a hand through my damp hair and try to shake off the need coiling hot and low in my gut. Not just the want to touch and hold her, but the deeper ache that resides underneath. The one that says I want to deserve her.
But that means I’ve got to stop fucking running.
“This is a really nice place, Beau,” she says as she glances around.
My house is nothing fancy, but I keep it neat. Clean lines. Dark hardwood floors that creak just a little in the quiet. A sectional angled toward the stone fireplace, with a worn leather armchair I spend most evenings in. It’s the kind of house built for silence, not guests. Now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure I unintentionally made it that way.
The walls are painted a slate gray. The open kitchen beyond the archway is all matte black fixtures and butcher-block counters. It’s functional and simple.
Whitley’s bare feet hit the floor as she pads to the back window. “Can you see sunsets through here? Because this view is criminally underrated. You have the perfect shot of the hills. And how do you get your windows so clean? Do you do that thing where you use vinegar and newspaper, or do you have a window guy?”
I quirk a brow. “Do I look like I have a window guy?”
She glances over her shoulder, eyeing me up and down. “Hm, fair point. Okay, next question. Who picked out your paint colors? Because this gray with the wood accents is magazine worthy. Be honest. Was there a woman involved?”
“No woman,” I say. “I just…like things to be clean and put together.”
Her eyes soften. “Yeah. I can see that.”
Then, just as quickly, she perks back up. “I have to know—do you have matching towels in the bathroom? Because I feel like that’s the real test.”
“I do,” I admit, holding back a smirk. “Navy blue. All of them.”
She presses a hand to her chest. “My god, you’re an adult. With matching towels. And clean windows.” She moves closer, eyes dancing with that teasing light I’ve missed more than I should. “What other secrets are you hiding, Beau Sinclair?”
The question hangs between us, much heavier than I think she intended. I clear my throat.
“You want something to drink? Water? Beer?” I head toward the kitchen, needing a moment to collect myself.
“Water would be great,” she says, following me.
