"You sound pretty sure about that."
"I am." And I am. I've watched her grow up, seen her determination. "You're a Harrelson. Failure isn't in your vocabulary. There's nothing you can't do."
She laughs, the sound low and warm. "Now you really do sound like my dad."
Something twists in my chest. The last thing I want is to remind her of Hank right now. Not when I'm noticing the curve of her neck, the way her fingers curl around the edge of the blanket.
Silence stretches between us, comfortable yet charged. Her knee brushes mine when she shifts in her seat and stays there. I should move. I should put distance between us.
I don't.
The fire's almost out, just a few orange embers buried under ash. The night air wraps around us, cooler now, the stars sharp overhead. Palm trees cast shadows across the lawn.
"It's late," I murmur, rubbing my palms against my jeans. "You're probably ready to get to bed."
"Stay a little longer." Her voice is quiet, almost lost in the crackle of dying embers.
Three words. Just three simple words, but they tilt the night into something dangerous. My pulse quickens. This is where I do the responsible thing and refuse. I should stand up, say goodnight, and walk to my car. That's what Blake's best friend would do. That's what the kid Hank welcomed into his home should do.
Instead, I lean toward her. "You've got ash on your face."
I brush my thumb across her cheekbone, a whisper-soft touch to remove the smudge. But my hand lingers, cupping her face. Her skin is warm despite the cooling night. Her hazel eyes lock with mine, pupils wide in the darkness.
For a second, I start to pull back. One step, one breath, and I could walk away—pretend the thought never existed. But she doesn’t move. She just looks at me, steady and sure, and every reason to stop burns to ash.
Her breath catches. Mine stops completely.
I close the distance between us, pressing my lips to hers.
She freezes for one heartbeat, then her hand curls into my shirt, pulling me closer. The kiss deepens, no longer cautious but hungry. Years of buried tension ignite. The space between us vanishes.
My hands slide to her waist, feeling the curve of her body beneath thin fabric. Her fingers thread through my hair, tugging me closer, and a soft clamor escapes her. That sound undoes every bit of restraint I've built for years.
The blanket falls to the ground.
I taste mint and champagne on her tongue. The heat of her skin beneath my palms sears my skin. My hearthammers against my ribs as I pull her onto my lap, her weight settling against me.
This is wrong. This is Blake's little sister. This is Janie. This is the family that saved me.
But in the fading firelight, those thoughts burn away. There's only her mouth on mine, her hands gripping my shoulders. I trail kisses down her neck, drunk on the scent of her perfume and the taste of her skin.
My name rips from her lips against my ear, and I'm lost.
We break apart, both breathing hard. Her lips are swollen, her eyes wide. My hands still rest on her hips. The choice hangs in the air between us, heavier than smoke.
Then Janie rises and extends her hand to me. An invitation. A line I never thought I'd cross.
I take her hand. Neither of us says anything.
I follow Janie up the stairs, my fingers still laced with hers. Each step feels like crossing another boundary, another promise to her family I'm breaking. But I can't pull away. Not now.
We slip into her bedroom, the same room where she grew up. Books line the shelf, and a framed diploma hangs on the wall. This is Janie's space, and I'm trespassing in every possible way.
The door clicks shut behind us. In the darkness, her silhouette is backlit by moonlight filtering through the curtains. For a heartbeat, we just look at each other, the magnitude of what we're about to do hanging between us.
Then we collide.
My mouth finds hers, hungry and insistent. I press her against the wall, groaning as her body arches into mine. Her hands slip under my shirt, and her palms slide over my chest frantically. I murmur against her lips.