Morgan:I’m leaving LA tonight.Wish I’d seen you.Miss you.Call me soon.xo
Me:K.Love you.Talk soon.
I slip the phone back into my pocket and rest my elbows on my knees, staring out at the dark stretch of land in front of me.The quiet is heavy.
Maddox and I most probably can’t be anything.Whatever attraction flared between us—whatever intimacy we shared—I can’t hope for more.And yet, trying to smother it feels impossible, like I’m holding my breath underwater and pretending I won’t eventually need air.
I’m so fucked.
Warmth settles over my shoulders as a jacket—heavy and familiar—drops around me, and the scent of it reaches me before anything else does.Cedar and soap and heat, unmistakably him, wrapped around me.
Oh, how do I stop wanting this?Him?
“How long have you been out here?”His voice is low, careful.
I shrug, the movement swallowed by the weight of his coat.I lost track of time somewhere between getting back to the Hartley home and realizing I didn’t want to be inside.Meri’s at Katie’s tonight, and my thoughts were too big for the house, too loud and restless to be contained within four walls.
“A while.”
“Why don’t we go inside?I’ll fix you some tea.”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it, brittle at the edges.“Tea?”I tip my head to look at him.“I need something stronger than that.”
His mouth teases upward at the corners as a chuckle rumbles out of him, low and raspy, and without asking, he turns toward the house.
My steps fall into sync with his.There’s a tenderness between us, undeniable, but it’s stretched thin over everything we haven’t said.The kiss.Erica.The fact that his hands have been on me in a way that still lingers, still throbs under my skin.
Inside the house, warmth closes around us, but I don’t shed his jacket.I let it stay, the weight of it settling me.
Maddox heads for the kitchen and I follow, sliding onto a stool at the island.He opens a cabinet, pulls down a bottle of whiskey, and pours two generous shots.
When he turns, I see it—the weariness etched deeper than fatigue, and he hands me a glass.
“You look tired.”I take the glass, the amber glow catching the light.
“Probably the pressure of having a reporter glued to my side.Hard to keep my nose clean.”His smile appears but never quite reaches his eyes.
I huff a quiet laugh, not wanting to get into how I’ve been struggling to hold up that front.“Relax, Coach.You’re not that interesting.”
He doesn’t answer right away, only plants his hands on the counter across from me and leans in close enough that I catch the clean, familiar scent of soap, cold night air, and something distinctly him.
His gaze skims past my shoulder, drops to the hard surface of the counter, then lifts back to me.I get the sense he’s steadying himself before stepping onto thin ice.
He looks undone.Quietly so.
“Tonight brought a lot back.”He doesn’t need to say it.I’ve been keeping count: his dad, Erica, all of it stacked together.
He drags in a breath and moves to sit on the stool beside mine.Our knees hover a breath apart.All it would take is one small shift, and we’d be touching.
“I’m trying to work through his accident, his death.”His gray irises darken, features pinching.“You see, for all these years, I’ve held myself responsible for what happened to him.”
I straighten but keep my mouth shut, giving him the space to share this his way.
“He asked me to help him fix an engine, saying things would go quicker with two sets of hands.I blew him off, even though I said I’d be there.My friends were going to the speedway and then a party, and I never gave my dad a second thought.”
My fingers curl around the glass, but I don’t interrupt, although this explains so much about the way he takes on the world.He holds himself accountable for so much, even things that aren’t his to own.
“Only recently”—he gives me a wry smile—“after talking with my mom and Katie, have I started to see things in a different way.”