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“Where are you going?” I ask, following him out onto the back porch. Finn keeps walking, heading for his truck.
“Out,” he says. “Don’t wait up.”
The tires throw dirt as he backs up and drives off.
The air here is much cooler than it was on the beach, cool enough my breath puffs out in little clouds of steam. I wrap my hands over my arms, listening to the stillness, thankful for the quiet outside.
Everything in my head is so loud, just a jumble of noise and a heaping mess. Out here, it’s just quiet. I close my eyes and try to soak it in.
An engine rumbling up the driveway has me opening them again. I wonder if Finn changed his mind, and I brace myself for another argument.
But those headlights aren’t from Finn’s truck.
West parks in the spot Finn just left behind and slams the car door shut behind him.
“What the hell are you doing out here without a jacket?” he demands.
Like tumblers in a lock finally falling into place, the world around us shifts back into focus. That suffocating gauzy grayness slips away and the world is sharp and bright again. West and his bold, angry technicolor.
My West.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I let him hear it all, the frustration of that fight with Finn, my anger at being ignored all week. “If you’re here to see Finn, you just missed him.” My throat tightens, because if that’s why West is here, I might have to kill him.
West stalks up the stairs to the porch. I step away when he doesn’t stop moving, backing myself all the way up against the door to the kitchen.
“I’m not here for Finn,” he says, one hand sliding into my hair. He makes a fist, using my hair to pull my head back and captures my mouth in a kiss.
For one moment, my mind goes blissfully blank, the stunning heat of him a shock to my chilled body.
Home. You’re home.
No, I think, and I shove him back, ignoring how harsh my breath sounds in the dark. I shove him again, not playing around this time.
West wipes his mouth, watching me carefully.
I turn my back on him—aware that this is a risk, that he’ll see this as a challenge—and head into the kitchen. West follows me in, shutting the door behind him. I busy myself by making tea, buying time to calm my body down.
“What is that incredible smell?” West asks, sniffing audibly. “Cinnamon rolls?”
I grunt. It had been a stress-baking kind of afternoon.
“But not just cinnamon.” West finds the dish on the counter, peeling back the foil to get a look. “Is that… pumpkin spice?”
I whirl around, gripping the edge of the counter to keep from shoving him again. Or from tearing his clothes off. Until my body and mind get on the same page, we’re not doing either of those things.
“Why are you here?” I ask. He looks like the question pains him.
“You really have to ask that?”
“Since I haven’t seen you all week, yeah.” He flinches.
“I deserve that,” he says. “I’m sorry I haven’t called.”
I grunt again. “Have you talked to Raleigh?” The look on his face is answer enough. “Yeah, I thought not. What do you want, West?”
“That’s what you’re mad about?” he asks. “That I haven’t talked to Raleigh?”
“I’m mad for both our sakes, you asshole.” I take a deep breath, because some of my anger isn’t meant for West and it wouldn’t be fair to cut loose on him. But God, does it feel good to let it out for once. “What happened to ‘giving this a try once we get home’?”
