Page 48 of That Rush

His fingers still feel warm against my back.

“We’re adults. We can kiss, or hook up.” I hold his gaze. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

By six fifteen, I have changed my shirt three times for a man I haven’t even agreed to date.

I settle on a soft green shirt and denim shorts, then study my reflection, wondering why I bothered with mascara. I don’t have a good answer.

I pull my hair loose, immediately twist it back up, and walk into the kitchen to avoid a fourth wardrobe decision.

After a day of smiling at parents, answering questions, and keeping children from climbing the library display, my normal Friday routine should feel like a reward. I have the cabin to myself, a new romance waiting on the coffee table, and fresh pasta I picked up from one of the market vendors.

Everything is exactly how I like it. My gaze keeps drifting toward the front windows anyway.

Aiden has my address. I gave it to him with clear terms. Permission to ask again, no promise that my answer would change.

A reasonable man could decide not to drive thirty minutes into the foothills for the privilege of being rejected on my porch.

Aiden spent hours volunteering at a library booth after I said yes to one offer of help. Apparently, reason is persistent. And has excellent forearms.

I set a pot on the stove, reconsider whether I am hungry, then put it away again. The bread and cheese I bought will keep. I pour a glass of wine and carry it outside with my book.

The porch is warm from the afternoon sun. My hammock waits between two pines, but I choose the cushioned chair facing the drive and pretend the decision is a coincidence.

I open the book to the first chapter.

Three paragraphs later, I have absorbed nothing except the fact that the heroine owns a bakery.

My fingers drift across the place on my back where Aiden’s hand rested earlier. I can still feel the steady pressure of his palm, the brief flex of his fingers, and the possessiveness he admitted instead of disguising.

A flicker.

The word follows me home along with his expression after I told him adults could hook up without making it mean anything. He looked at me with controlled, unnerving intensity, as though I had offered a theory he intended to test personally.

Talking about sex has always been easy. Words are safe. I can arrange them exactly how I want them. I can tease, provoke, and state what I want without surrendering control of anything important.

Aiden makes every word feel dangerously close to action.

I turn the page without reading it.

If he comes, I still get to choose my answer.

The possibility of saying yes warms me more than the wine. One date can stay one date. One kiss doesn't claim every Friday that follows. Wanting his hands on me creates no obligation to want his name, his family calendar, or a permanent place inside the Slade orbit.

I understand the difference even if Aiden prefers certainty.

The unsettling part is how badly I want him to show up and ask.

I close the book over one finger and check the time. Six forty-eight.

The cabin settles into its familiar quiet, the only sound the wind stirring the pine branches against the roof.

I take my wine into the kitchen and turn on the porch light.

The sun is still up, but the steps are uneven. It’s just basic hospitality. Not a signal that I’m expecting company.

I set my glass beside the sink, smooth my shirt, and catch myself.

“Get a grip, Whitaker.”