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Paloma in my sweatshirt, sitting at the bar top, warm brown eyes and flushed skin from an early morning shower. Feeding her. Making her coffee. Writing her a poem and slipping it into her bag before we leave. Together.

The way it was supposed to be.

Still, I smile because my friends are happy. I turn away before I can ruin it, reaching for my coffee as I back out of the kitchen area, when I stumble into someone in the hallway.

“Sorry,” a voice whispers.

A voice I know more intimately than my own. For a moment, I’m sure I’m hallucinating.

I turn so swiftly I almost trip, coming face-to-face with a piece of my soul.

The love of my goddamn life.

Paloma Blake.

Chapter 9

NOW

Paloma

I knew I should have waited until I heard them all leave.

I want to regret it, only—I can’t. Because Bennett Reiner is in front of me, eyes wide, hand half reaching for me.

Looking just over the peak of Bennett’s bicep, I realize no one has noticed us yet. Bennett mimics my movement, checking over his own shoulder before pulling me gently away from the kitchen, down the hall, and into the garage.

“Are you okay?” he blurts out before I can say a word. His eyes scan over me once more before settling on mine, too severe and vibrant.

His hand is still on my wrist, hold firm and warm—not too tight. It’s almost familiar, how often he’s held both my wrists like that, above my head—

Stop.

My cheeks flush, eyes darting away from his and toward where he’s still touching me. His focus on me, waiting for my answer, is too intense. Still, he doesn’t notice my borderline inappropriate reaction to his closeness, his casual intimate touch that I haven’t felt in months.

I take him in slowly: the large set of his shoulders, the furrow of his thick brow, the concern searing in his deep ocean blue eyes. My body aches to relax into his grip, to tell him everything and just let him fix it. But I know that he can’t.

I’m unfixable.

And if this is my chance to turn over a new leaf, then I cannot use Bennett Reiner as my crutch to do it. I’ve proven time and again that it won’t work, though my heart will never listen. Even now it reaches toward him, drawing me closer.

“Fine,” I say, voice wobbly. “I’m fine.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

He doesn’t mean to be harsh—I know Bennett well enough to know that his intensity stems from care more than exasperation or anger.

It doesn’t stop me from stammering as I offer my apology. “I’m sorry . . . I should’ve said something, but Sadie and Freddy said I could stay here and—”

“Hey, hey,” he coos, putting his travel mug down and rubbing his hands over my arms. Gooseflesh rises in the wake of his touch. “You don’t need to explain. It’s fine. I just need to make sure you’re okay.”

I can feel myself drowning in his gaze, the way I always do in his presence. My body relaxes slowly, leaving the constant on-guard tension behind.

A voice booms, calling out something as they thump up the stairs—Freddy, I think. But it’s enough to have me snapping back and away from his touch.

His hands linger in the air, like he’s trying to catch smoke.

“I’m fine . . . promise.” I offer, my voice a shade darker.