But my body doesn’t believe that. And judging by the way his hand grips the steering wheel, neither does he.
Chapter Twenty
Colton
Ishouldn’t be this affected by a car ride. By the quiet hum of the engine. By the way the city lights blur past the windshield. By the woman sitting beside me like she hasn’t detonated an explosion inside my chest.
Melissa shifts slightly in her seat, crossing her legs, and the movement is subtle, innocent even, but my grip clutches the steering wheel all the same. I can feel her presence by the warmth and awareness in my body.
This was a mistake. Not bringing her out. Not asking her to dinner. Letting her get this close to me.
She smells different tonight. Not hospital clean. Not antiseptic and coffee and stress. Softer. Warmer. The kind of presence that stays.
I inhale through my nose and regret it instantly.
I’ve spent years mastering control. Discipline. Restraint. I don’t lose my footing. But right now, my body is betraying me. Every stoplight feels like a dare.
I imagine pulling over. Telling her I forgot my wallet, leaning across the console, framing her face in my hands. I imagine the way her breath would hitch, the way her eyes would darken when she realized I was done fighting it.
My jaw clenches. I don’t do this. I don’t get consumed by want. I don’t unravel because of proximity. I especially don’t react like this to a woman who looks at me like she’s trying not to hope for more.
“You’re quiet,” she says gently.
Her voice cuts through my thoughts like a blade.
I glance at her, long enough to see the curve of her mouth, the way her fingers fidget in her lap. She’s nervous—I can tell. And somehow that makes it worse.
“Sorry, just thinking,” I reply.
She hums. “That’s exactly what a girl wants to hear on a date.”
I try not to smile at her honesty, but the car fills with silence again. It doesn’t feel awkward but loaded. The kind that pulses beneath the skin. The kind that makes me acutely aware of how close my hand is to her thigh, even though it’s nowhere near touching.
She looks out the window, and I force my attention back to the road.
Focus. This is only dinner.
But my body doesn’t care about logic. It responds to her laugh earlier. To the way she looked at me downstairs, like she wasn’t sure what version of me she was getting. To the fact that she still came anyway.
I exhale slowly, counting it out, like I’m trying to steady myself before delivering bad news.
Don’t touch her. Don’t pull over. Don’t make promises you won’t keep.
Because if I do, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop. And the most dangerous part? I’m not sure I want to.
The restaurant is understated in the way money usually is—dark wood, low lighting, quiet confidence. No menus laminated. No prices listed. The kind of place that doesn’t need to impress because it already knows it has.
Melissa pauses inside the door, taking it in. I watch her reaction. Her eyes widen a fraction. Not in awe, but in appreciation. Curiosity. The kind of reaction that tells me she isn’t intimidated by this world so much as aware she’s stepping into it.
“This is …” She trails off, then laughs softly. “Wow.”
I rest a hand at the small of her back again, brief but grounding. “Too much?”
She shakes her head. “No. Just … different.”
Different from hospital corridors. From grief. From the careful, narrowed life she’s been living.
Good.
