Page 23 of Unruly

“You were about to.”

I stop beside her and look up at the same moon she’s staring at. It’s full and low and glowing.

“Nice night,” I say lightly.

“Cash.”

“Halle.”

She exhales, takes a long pull from the bottle, and holds it out without looking at me. I take it, drink, and hand it back.

Up close, she’s definitely not fine. Her eyes are glassy and too bright. Her jaw is locked tight like she’s physically holding herself together. She’s been crying … or fighting hard not to.

“You don’t have to be out here,” she says.

“I know.”

“I’m not going to talk about it.”

“Okay … To be honest, I don’t really want to hear about it.”

She shoves me. “You’re a real class act. You know that, Thornwood?”

I grin, but it softens when I look at her again. “Yeah, I’ve been told. Comes with the face.”

Then she takes another drink and stumbles a half-step toward me. She’s had too much.

“He thinks I’m running,” she says finally, staring out at the dark field.

“Are you?”

She laughs, short and a little broken. “No. I’m standing in a field, in the dark, drinking whiskey, alone. That’s not running. That’s … I don’t even know what the fuck that is.”

I step closer, carefully, and gently take the bottle from her hand before she drops it. “Right now, it looks like you’re standing in a field, probably about to puke, with a very charming man who’s extremely concerned about your well-being.”

She looks at me then. The moonlight catches the tear tracks on her cheeks and something in my chest twists, hard.

I want to pull her against me. I want to tell her that whoever made her feel like this is an idiot who never deserved her. I want to fix it.

Then she steps into me.

She closes the distance and her free hand fists the front of my shirt. She tips her face up and kisses me.

Sloppy with whiskey—warm, desperate, and wanting—and I kiss her back like a man who’s been starving for it. She’s been living rent-free in my head for three months, and she tastes like bad decisions and something sweeter underneath that I want to chase for hours with my tongue.

And yeah, I have a fucking boner. I’m twenty-two with a pulse and working hands, and the woman I’ve been quietly obsessed with is kissing me in a dark field like she needs it. I’m not a saint; I’ve never claimed to be.

My hand finds her waist, fingers pressing into the thin fabric of her skirt. I can feel the heat of her skin underneath and when she makes this small, broken sound against my mouth, it shoots straight down my spine. I pull her closer, greedy, one hand sliding lower to the curve of her ass, because for one second, she’s mine.

I’m an idiot for how badly I want this. For how much I don’t care that she’s drunk or hurting or probably going to regret it. I just want her.

It lasts maybe five seconds.

Then she pulls back.

Then she slaps me.

The sound of it sharp in the open field, swallowed immediately by the dark.