"He's a natural at hand-eye coordination." I smiledespite myself. "He gets frustrated when he misses, so I can see he'll be very competitive. I think you have an athlete on your hands."
"Wonder where he gets that from." Her eyes meet mine with a hint of teasing.
I swell with satisfaction.
"You've got to have confidence for that, and that is all you."
Her laugh is quiet but real. The first genuine one I've heard directed at me since things exploded.
We talk about Beckett, about Thanksgiving in a few days, about nothing important, until suddenly it is.
She tucks her hair behind her ear, a tired laugh escaping. “It never ends. Work, Beckett, this house. It’s like playing goalie without backup.”
“You’re stronger than anyone I know, Janie.” The words slip out before I can stop them. I don't know if I want to go there, to open us up to talking. But I can't help it. “What you’ve done, what you’ve built alone, is incredible.”
Her eyes shine in the dim light. I take in every detail: her hair falling loose around her shoulders, the way her throat works as she swallows, the brush of her knee against mine.
Heat coils low in my stomach. Her gaze drops to my mouth, then back up. I lean in, caught between reason and want?—
And stop.
The air crackles with what almost happened. What still could. Janie doesn’t move away. She’s right there, waiting, hope written all over her face.
But if I close that distance, there’s no going back. Not for me. Not for her. Not for us.
I push to my feet, pulse hammering. “I should get going. I have a full day tomorrow.”
Her lips part, but she doesn’t argue.
I make it to the door in three strides, each one heavier than the last. When the cool night air hits me, it’s a relief and a punishment all at once.
Because the truth is, I desperately wanted to kiss her. I had enough wherewithal to walk out before I broke.
Next time, I might not be so strong.
TWENTY-THREE
Janie
I walk into my bedroom and lean against my dresser, my hand flat against the cool, waxed wood for support.
The house is quiet, just the tick of pipes and the faint white noise of the noise machine outside of Beckett's room. All of it intensifies the feeling of being trapped with the storm still rolling through my body.
Sleep right now is impossible. My skin tingles, and my pulse thrums low and hot between my legs. I’m soaked with want, every nerve replaying how close he came.
His face was inches from mine. His breath ghosted across my mouth.
My pussy throbs when I think about the way his eyes dropped to my lips like he was starving.
And then, he stopped.
I grip the edge of the dresser until my knuckles ache. Why did he pull back? Why can’t I stop wanting him, anyway?
I drop onto the edge of the mattress, my thighs pressing together, desperate and restless. My body doesn’t care about the lie I told or the secret I kept. It only remembershim leaning in, heat radiating between us, promising what could have been if he’d just closed that last inch.
“Dammit,” I whisper into the dark, dragging both hands through my hair. The echo of him lingers everywhere, a ghost I can’t banish, no matter how much I try.
I flop back against the pillows. My skin is too tight, my heartbeat too loud in my ears. I can still smell him—sandalwood and pine—lingering on my couch, in my living room. In my mind.