Holy moly. Miles Thatcher, the boy I used to have the worst crush on, is touching my leg. Caressing my skin. And all I can think about is what if those fingers move further up my leg and press into my center.
Goosebumps break out across my skin, and I clench my thighs together to keep from moaning like a wanton, needy girl.
His fingers absently continue to play, and my legs part infinitesimally on their own accord, as I drop my head back with a quiet moan and a thud.
“I like you,” he reveals, fingers stroking gently and so damn delicious. “I’m just an asshole, a prick to everyone. You’re not special that way. Believe me, you want to keep your distance.”
My body stiffens with anger. “Well, I don’t agree with that. You haven’t always been such a stuck-up jerk. You used to be nice.”
Realizing what I just said, I slap a hand over my mouth to stop any more confessions from slipping out. But it’s too late. Miles pushes himself upright and shifts to face me, his expression solemn, eyebrows furrowed as he stares at me.
“How would you know? We only just met. Didn’t we?”
My chin drops to my chest, and I screw my eyes shut to hide them from his assessing gaze.
“Sutton,” he commands in warning, his voice gravelly and thick from his emotional state and something far more masculine. “What aren’t you telling me? Was I right? Do we know each other?”
I open them but keep my eyes downcast, avoiding his judgment. But his finger slips under my chin and brings it up, our gazes locking in silent opposition. Each of us holding firm in our respective corners.
“Tell me.”
He may have the upper hand, but I remain resolute, flicking my eyes away, stubbornly refusing to look him in the eye.
“Yes, you’re right about me. We grew up together in Mystic. I was Melodie’s best friend when we were kids.”
“Holy fuck,” he bellows. He jabs a finger at me judgmentally, but his voice softens when he says with wonder, “I knew it. You’re Button.”
I wilt with a feeling of nostalgia as he uses the nickname he’d given me when I was just a kid. Sutton Button. Or just Button for short.
He inspects me, his eyes taking me in from several angles as if he doesn’t believe what, or who, he’s seeing.
“I knew you were familiar.” He slurs drunkenly and even that’s done smugly. “Why didn’t you ever correct me?”
I shrug my shoulder noncommittally, which his eyes track and follow, the intensity of his glare sending shivers down my spine. In fact, his entire gaze lingers over my skin, sparking flint across the dry surface, until it returns to my face, homing in on my lips. I chew nervously on my bottom lip and swallow.
“I was embarrassed to tell you.”
I don’t offer more because it would unearth the one memory that I both cherish and want to forget. The day of Mel’s funeral when he kissed me and then promptly forgot me.
His palm lands on the outside of my thigh, cupping over the flesh and pressing his fingers firmly into the curve of my hip.
“Why would you be embarrassed to tell me you were friends with Mel?”
I stare at him blankly. Incredulously. Does he not get it? Does he not realize how painful it is to be so invisible to him and so easily forgotten?
I move out of his grasp and work to get to my feet, standing far enough away to give me the distance I need from his touch. From his scrutiny and judgment.
“I’m not ashamed to have been friends with Mel. It’s you, Miles.” My voice rises, nostrils flare with intensity. Ire. Indignation. “It’s the fact that you kissed me seven years ago and have completely thrown it out of your memory. It meant nothing to you. I was just convenient, easy to use, and forgettable.”
From the look across his face—eyes wide and dazed and jaw dropped open—it appears my confession has thrown him, and he might be sick. Or that could be the booze. The man smells like a whiskey barrel.
He fumbles to gain his balance, pressing up on his hands and knees and then pushes to a stand, reaching for the doorframe to steady his balance. When he finally straightens to his full height, he clears his throat and looks me over carefully. With reverence.
My body turns from ice to a melted puddle instantly. I back myself against the door, my fingers gripping at the woodwork behind me, digging into the frame to keep myself in place. Miles surveys me like a predator stakes out its prey, inching forward, his body eating up the distance between us until there is no more space.
It’s just us and the molecules that circulate between us. The pheromones in our blood bubble and burst like lava, ready to escape the volcano's core. Our breaths mingle in a heated exchange.
Miles moves so quickly I’m not prepared for it, and I gasp aloud. He places one hand over my head, caging me in, while the other cups my jaw, holding me firmly in his hand as he hovers over me.
