I’m suddenly hyper-aware of everything—how close she is, how easily my thumbs could move, how her hands hover for half a second before settling on my forearms.
I help her up slowly, taking a breath at a time before I lose it.
“There,” I murmur once she’s steady.
Neither of us lets go right away.
The sunflowers sway around us, brushing our legs. Everything is hushed except for the sound of my heartbeat pounding in my ears.
Her fingers curl slightly into my sleeves as my hands stay at her waist, my thumbs flexing once before I force them still.
I don’t trust myself.
She swallows. “You okay?”
I nod, probably too fast. “Yeah. Just—uh. You’re good?”
She smiles sheepishly. “Yeah. Thanks for… catching me.”
“I didn’t really,” I admit.
“You did enough,” she says.
It feels like she might say something else, something important. Her gaze flicks to my lips, then back to my eyes.
I let go first, and losing contact with her makes my heart ache.
She steps back, smoothing her dress, lifting her camera again to give her something to do with her hands.
“Well,” she says lightly, clearing her throat. “Sunflowers conquered. Reed Hayes successfully twirled.”
I laugh, rubbing the back of my neck. “I’m never living that down, am I?”
“Absolutely not,” she says, grinning. “It’s going in the vault.”
She turns away to film again, but she glances back over her shoulder, her eyes soft, and she smiles at me.
Her smile could gut me completely.
I stand there for a moment longer, my hands still tingling, my heart still pounding, knowing one thing for sure, that the touch meant something.
And whatever this is between us, it’s only just starting to burn.
layla
. . .
Yesterday with Reed was fun. Our friendship is turning into something interesting, and I’m lying to myself if I don’t want more with him.
Layla, this is so wrong, but I can’t seem to find a fuck to give.
It’s late afternoon at Boots & Bourbon, the evening auburn rays of light slipping through the windows. The bar smells faintly like smoke and whiskey, that sweet-spice blend that clings to the air long after the doors open.
Reed’s behind the counter with his sleeves rolled to his elbows. The more time we spend together, the more he’s becoming comfortable showing me parts of himself he doesn’t show others.
He moves with a quiet, careful rhythm that makes it feel like he’s part of the place.
There’s a half-empty bottle of bourbon by his elbow, a dishrag in his hand, and a pair of black-frame glasses resting low on his nose as he checks the register.
