Page 88 of Chasing the Other Woman

A muscle jumps in her jaw.

“I’m not doing this to force you back to me,” I add. “I’m doing it because I should never have had the power to push you out in the first place.”

For several seconds, Sam says nothing. The silence stretches long enough that I can hear my own pulse.

Then she steps closer. “You’re an idiot,” she says, her voice catching.

I blink.

She grabs the front of my shirt and pulls me down into a kiss.

For half a heartbeat, I’m too stunned to move. Then the paper cup hits the asphalt, and my hands lift to her waist, careful, shaking, there only because she put me there. Sam kisses me like it's the first time all over again. And I let her choose every second of it.

Twenty-One

SAM

Brooks kisses me back like he's been waiting two years and one terrible storm for permission.

For a few seconds, I forget the parking lot. I forget the folding table, the cooling burgers, the radios muttering from the open tailgate of Hershel’s truck. I forget that half the team is ten yards away and absolutely pretending not to watch us.

All I know is Brooks’s shirt is bunched in my fists, his mouth is on mine, and the rough sound he makes when I pull him closer drives me a little crazy.

His hands stay at my waist.

Careful. Shaking. Waiting.

That should hurt, maybe. Once, Brooks Carlisle touched me like he had every right in the world. Like my body was the place his hands knew best. Now he holds me like I’m something he's terrified of breaking.

I pull back just enough to breathe against his mouth. “If you ask me if I’m sure, I may actually kick you.”

His eyes open. Dark. Wrecked. “Sammy Girl.”

“Don’t Sammy Girl me unless you’re about to move.”

His mouth twitches, but the smile doesn’t quite survive. “Your room or mine?”

The old answer rises without permission.

"Which one's closest?"

A laugh breaks out of him, low and disbelieving, and it does something dangerous to my chest. Then his hand slides into mine, fingers threading through mine, and we walk across the lot like two people trying very hard not to run.

We fail somewhere near room twelve.

Brooks gets the key card out on the third try because his hands are still shaking. Mine aren’t doing much better. The little green light finally blinks, and when the second the door shuts behind us, I’m on him again.

Or he’s on me.

Hard to tell.

The room is ugly in the way cheap motel rooms are ugly. Brown carpet. One queen bed with a comforter that has seen unspeakable things. A lamp that buzzes when Brooks bumps the table. Wet storm gear piled near the wall. My muddy boots kicked off beside his. The whole place smells like rain, road dust, cheap soap, and him.

It feels like being twenty-two again.

It feels like every motel room we ever tumbled into after chasing something mean across three counties with no money, no sense, and enough heat between us to fog the windows.

Only this time, when Brooks backs me toward the bed, he stops.