Four. The quiet conversation I’d had with myself on the drive here. How it would be the last time. How I was too old for this shit, too settled, too—
Five. The way he’d looked the last time. Eyes so dark I couldn’t see where the iris ended and the pupil began. The controlled precision of his movements, the barely contained hunger when he’d finally let himself go. The way he’d said my name, like it was something precious he’d found.
Six. The fact that I’d packed a toothbrush without even thinking about it. The fact that my overnight bag was sitting on the passenger seat next to the map. The fact that I’d left my unfinished house—my house—to come here.
Seven. That he’d never said he missed me. Not in words. But there had been something in that text. Something in the timing of it, the night I’d moved in. Not “I’ll be in Billings,” but “I’ll be in Billings and would like to see you.” As though seeing me had been the point of the trip.
Eight. That I’d texted back “Looking forward to it” like a fucking teenager with a crush.
Nine. That I was still sitting in my vehicle with the engine off, counting reasons not to go inside, when the only reason that mattered was that I wanted to. That I’d wanted to since the text came through. That I’d been wanting to for a month, since the last time.
Ten. Time’s up.
I grabbed my bag from the passenger seat and climbed out of the Humvee. The cold hit me immediately—late November in Montana, the kind of cold that stripped the air from your lungs and turned your breath to steam. I zipped my jacket higher and crossed the parking lot, my boots crunching on the thin layer of frost that had formed on the pavement.
The lobby was warm and empty, just a woman at the front desk who looked up when I came in, then back down at her computer when I made it clear I wasn’t headed her way.
I’d stayed at the Sheraton enough times to know where the elevators were—not because I came to Billings often, but because I’d stayed here with Cruz before. Salt Lake, Cheyenne, Rapid City, and now Billings. A perfect geographic record of exactly how far I was willing to drive to spend the night with him.
The elevator arrived with a soft ding. I stepped inside and pressed 4, then leaned against the back wall and watched the numbers light up. One. Two. Three. Four.
Another ding, and the doors slid open on the fourth floor. The hallway was quiet, lined with identical doors and the occasional landscape painting that looked like it had been ordered in bulk.
I walked to the end of the hall—the corner room, the best view, the kind of detail Cruz always noticed—and stopped in front of 412.
I’d come all this way. Driven three hours. Packed a bag. Counted to ten in the parking lot. Now there was just this: my hand raised to knock, and the question of whether I’d meant any of the reasons I’d given myself not to be here.
I knocked once. Soft. Knowing.
The door opened a crack—just enough for me to see a slice of darkened room and the shadow of someone standing on the other side—and then a hand reached out, grabbed my jacket, and hauled me inside so fast I didn’t have time to breathe.
The door slammed behind me. My back hit the wall. And then Cruz was there, his mouth on mine, one hand on my throat and the other at my waist, holding me in place while he kissed me like he was drowning and I was air.
My bag hit the floor with a thud. My hands came up to grip his arms, to steady myself against the sudden weakness in my knees. His mouth was hot and demanding, his beard rough against my chin, his body a solid line of heat pressed against me from chest to thigh.
I kissed him back with everything I had—three hours of driving, one month of waiting, six months of wanting—and felt his hand tighten at my throat, not choking, but holding, like he was afraid I might disappear if he let go.
When he finally broke the kiss, I was breathing hard, my chest rising and falling against his. He was still holding me against the wall, still watching me with those dark eyes that gave away nothing.
“You came,” he said, and there was something in his voice—surprise, maybe, or relief—that made my stomach do that thing again, that fast, inconvenient flip.
“You texted,” I answered, because what else was there to say?
He kissed me again, softer this time but no less intense, and I let my head fall back against the wall, let my eyes close, let myself have this—just this—without counting reasons or thinking about what it meant.
It meant I was here. He was here. And for tonight, at least, that was enough.
The kiss ended as abruptly as it had begun. Cruz stepped back, just enough to put space between us, and I immediately missed the heat of him.
He was wearing nothing but a towel slung low around his hips, water still glistening on his shoulders and chest like he’d just stepped out of the shower.
My mouth went dry at the sight of him—all that hard muscle and smooth skin—and I had to swallow twice before I could speak.
“You planning to let me out of this hallway, or should I just get comfortable against the wall?” I asked, my voice steadier than I had any right to expect.
His mouth curved in that not-quite-smile I’d seen maybe three times in the six months I’d known him. “Depends,” he said, one hand coming up to brush my jaw. “You planning to stay?”
It was the closest he’d ever come to acknowledging what we were doing—that I’d driven three hours to spend the night in his hotel room, that this was the fifth time in six months, that there was a pattern here neither of us had named.
