Knox’s shirt.
The one he slipped over my head after…
All of it drifts back: the feel of his mouth on me, his spine-tingling rasp against my ear.
One more date, then we make good on what we’ve been holding back.
The shirt still smells like him—salt air, cedar, and trouble wrapped in comfort. I breathe it in, slow and deep, trying to hold onto last night like a dream I never want to wake up from.
Shutting my eyes, I sink deeper into the memory of feeling wanted, seen, worshipped. Like maybe I’m not as broken as I once believed.
My cell phone vibrates on the nightstand, instantly slicing through quiet reverie.
There’s only one person who texts this early.
Dad: Morning, Kiddo. Your boxes from England arrived yesterday. Found an apartment on the Upper West Side. Doorman. Central Park view. Three beds. Two baths. Check out the virtual tour and let me know if this works so I can get it all furnished before you get here.
As I stare at the screen, the weight of reality presses in like a slow tide.
Upper West Side. Virtual tour. A whole new life, new job, new responsibilities lined up for me in New York.
I should feel excited.
Central Park views, a dream job, a fresh start in the city.
All I’ve worked for at Oxford, right?
But just thinking about it makes me want to pack a bag and book a one-way ticket to Mars.
Instead, I lock the screen and place my phone on the nightstand, facedown, like reality will disappear if I don’t look at it.
Sorry, Dad. Not today.
Tossing back the sheets, I swing my legs over the side of the bed, Knox’s shirt brushing my bare thighs as I stand.
Making my way downstairs, I pad toward the kitchen, sunlight spilling through bay windows.
I pause, my gaze drifting to that patch of sand just past the dunes where we lay last night, tangled up beneath moonlight and stars.
My pulse shudders, legs softening at the memory of his mouth exploring my body like he would’ve taken hours to worshipallof me. And how he held back—honored our three-date agreement—even when we were both trembling for more? My God. Knox is amazing.
Turning toward the counter, I spot the bubble phone where I left it, plugged in to charge, silent and waiting.
I cross the room and pluck it off the counter, flipping it open in an instant.
One new message: Good morning, beautiful. We miss you.
Attached is a photo: him on the couch, hair still messy from sleep, one kitten on his shoulder and the other curled up under his arm like a furry seatbelt.
I press the phone to my chest, like that might somehow slow the flutter happening in there.
Ridiculous, I know.
But something about that photo makes my lips quiver. His sleepy smile. Those kittens glued to him like they know he’s safe.
A breeze floats in through the kitchen window, threaded with salt air and the faint scent of last night’s tide.
My throat tightens.Please, not now.
