Her eyes fluttered open. She gazed up at me, pupils dilated and her cheeks flushed. Her fingers were still playing with the hair at the nape of my neck, sending shivers down my spine with each gentle tug.
“I guess that was inevitable.” Her murmur was huskier than usual. “We were always good together.”
The vulnerability in her eyes stole my breath. “Yeah.” My thumb brushed across her lower lip. “We were.”
She leaned into my touch, and I wanted nothing more than to kiss her again, to take her home with me, to wake up with her in my arms tomorrow. But I held back. This wasn’t just about what I wanted—what I’d always wanted. She had a life somewhere else, plans and ambitions I didn’t factor into.
I forced myself to remember that she was leaving. We were down to a week. And even though every cell in my body was screaming to hold on and never let go, I wouldn’t trap her. I’d done that once before, making her choose between me and her dreams. I wouldn’t make that mistake again.
“We should probably finish closing up.” I brushed a strand of hair from her face.
She nodded but made no move to step away. “Probably.”
“Gill...” My voice was rough with everything I couldn’t say.
Her eyes searched mine. “I know.”
We stood there another moment, suspended between what was and what could be, before she finally stepped back. The lossof her warmth was physical, and I had to fight the urge to pull her back into my arms.
Instead, I helped her finish cleaning up in a silence that wasn’t uncomfortable but was heavy with unspoken words. When we finally walked out to her car, she turned to face me one last time.
“Thank you for tonight,” she said. “For everything.”
“Anytime.” I meant it more than she knew.
She rose on her toes and pressed a soft kiss to my lips—brief but unmistakably deliberate—before sliding into her car. I watched her drive away, the flavor of her still on my lips, wondering if I’d just made the biggest mistake of my life or found my way back to the only thing I’d ever truly wanted.
CHAPTER 13
GILLIAN
I stared at my laptop screen until the contract language blurred. The words made perfect sense individually—merger, acquisition, indemnification, termination—but strung together they might as well have been Sanskrit. I’d read the same paragraph five times.
With a frustrated sigh, I pushed back from Doc’s kitchen table. Sunlight streamed through the windows, mocking my inability to focus. I should be plowing through this work. Sunday was my chance to catch up on everything I’d neglected while running the bar.
Instead, my mind kept replaying last night in vivid detail.
Diego’s arms around me as we swayed to Elvis, the weight of his hands settled at the small of my back like they’d never left. The heat of his body pressed against mine, solid and warm and achingly familiar. The way his hand had cradled my face before he kissed me, thumb brushing across my cheekbone with a tenderness that made my chest tight. And God, that kiss—soft at first, questioning, then deeper when I’d melted against him like I had no choice in the matter.
I touched my lips, still remembering the ghost of his mouth on mine, the slight roughness of his five o’clock shadow thathad scraped against my skin. My fingertips traced where his had been, as if I could somehow capture the sensation and hold on to it. It wasn’t fair that he could still do this to me—turn my insides to liquid with just one kiss, make my pulse race like I was twenty-two again and drunk on possibility. I’d had relationships since Diego. Perfectly adequate, occasionally satisfying relationships with men who checked all the appropriate boxes on paper. Successful men. Ambitious men. Men my parents would approve of.
None of them had made me feel like I was simultaneously falling and flying, like the ground had disappeared beneath my feet and I didn’t care if I ever found it again. None had left me wanting more with an intensity that bordered on physical pain, an ache that settled deep in my bones and refused to leave.
“It’s just nostalgia,” I muttered, getting up to pour more coffee, my legs unsteady as I crossed the kitchen. The mug trembled slightly in my hands. “First love syndrome. Rose-colored glasses and all that.”
But I knew that was a lie, had known it the moment his lips touched mine and my entire world had shifted back into focus. I’d recognized the truth I’d been avoiding for four years, the one I’d buried under case files and billable hours and safe, sensible choices: No one had ever measured up to Diego Rivera. No one had even come close. And despite all my carefully constructed reasons for leaving, despite the partnership track and the corner office and everything I was working so hard to achieve—I was still in love with him.
The contract on my screen pinged with a comment from a colleague. I should respond. I should work. I’d already wasted half the morning lost in memories.
Instead, I leaned against the counter, letting the truth wash over me.
I still had feelings for him. Deep, complicated, terrifying feelings that meant I’d have my heart ripped out all over again when I left Huckleberry Creek in a week.
“Damn it.” I set down my mug with more force than necessary. Coffee sloshed over the rim.
I knew what walking away from Diego was like. I remembered the physical ache of it, the way I’d cried myself to sleep those first few months of law school. The way I’d buried myself in coursework to avoid thinking about what I’d left behind.
My choice had made sense at the time. Follow the path I’d been groomed for since childhood. Don’t disappoint my parents. Don’t throw away opportunities that people would kill for. Don’t give my father another reason to criticize Doc’s choices.
