“For making my first real date feel like it mattered. For saying I’m worth it.”
Quiet lingers, a suspended hush brimming with more than words can carry.
Knox’s fingers drift from my shoulder to the nape of my neck, igniting a low, aching blaze that skates down my spine. I close my eyes under the slow sweep of his touch, and when they flutter open, his gaze is already on me, dark, unflinching, full of something I’m not sure I can name.
“You’re the first woman I’ve actually wanted to spend time with, truly be with, since my divorce.”
The raw honesty nearly knocks the wind out of me.
“And you’re the first guy I’ve wanted this close in over a year,” I whisper, the words spilling out like a confession.
Knox’s palm lifts to cradle my cheek, thumb grazing lightly, gentle but with a gravity that steals my breath.
Our lips meet, tentative for only a heartbeat before restraint gives way to something fervent. Hungrier.
His hand slides to the nape of my neck, warmth from his touch sweeping down my spine as I thread my fingers through his hair, tugging him closer.
Heat builds fast.
Wild. Heady. Consuming.
Mouths part. Tongues tangle.
The world slips out of focus.
Music and laughter drift up from the boardwalk, distant and dreamy, like a cherished memory on replay.
His scent—sun, soap, cologne—wraps around me. My fingers tighten in his hair, and I feel featherlight. Lit from within. Fragile and blazing, all at once.
When our kiss finally slows, I’m flushed, breathless, lips tingling, heart drumming.
“I don’t want to stop,” Knox rasps, nose brushing mine, fingers still tangled in my hair.
“Then don’t,” I breathe, lips ghosting over his. “We’ve got the whole ride down.”
CHAPTER 12
Knox
“I made a huge mistake.”
My jaw tightens, the urge to hang up nearly boiling over. “You’ll need to be more specific.”
“I should’ve asked for more time.” Jenna The Exwhines, sounding even more high-pitched than I care to remember. “The movers can’t get me out until October. I didn’t plan for?—”
“Jenna…” I exhale, stepping through Seaside Market’s automatic doors as a blast of A/C hits, useless against the heat rising under my skin. “We had a deal.”
“You expect me to have some moving truck parked outside the penthouse during peak wedding season? People will talk. I can’t risk my brand getting dragged through mud because of…what happened.”
Whathappened?
Like I didn’t walk in and see it for myself. As though her betrayal was some vague, unfortunate event; a PR crisis one of her friends could spin away.
I grab a basket and head for the produce aisle, jaw tighter, heart thudding in time with my steps.
“You’ve been given the entire summer to find a new place, pack up, and leave,” I say, clipped yet somehow calm.“Everything but your antique chest’s already been sold by the brokers—per the divorce decreeyouagreed to. We’ll split all proceeds, remember? Buyers come the first week of September, so unless a moving truck will be hauling your shoes, coats, and designer bags, I’m not sure what you’ll need one for.”
She’s quiet on the other end, but I can picture her now: hand at her temple, eyes closed, already scripting a version where she’s forced to vacate too soon by her cold, unyielding ex.
