Page 66 of The Story Between Us

And then Nate sat back down across from her, running a hand through those dark curls, wearing a self-deprecating smile, and yeah, she was clearly in way over her head.

“Sorry about that,” he said.

“Don’t be.” She dragged her eyes away from imagining what it would feel like to run her own fingers through that hair. “The books matter to people. Your words matter.”

He smiled at her, and something in her chest turned over. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Oh. Um. And for a second, her brain simply stopped. Don’t say that. Don’t look at me like that. Don’t be sweet and vulnerable and handsome and⁠—

“I’m glad I’m here too,” she managed.

The walk along the boardwalk was a terrible idea.

She’d known it when he suggested it. Known it when she agreed. Known it with absolute certainty when they stepped out of the restaurant into the cold September night and he immediately moved closer, his shoulder brushing hers as they walked.

“You’re shivering,” he said.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

And then he was shrugging off his jacket—that worn canvas jacket that smelled like autumn and cedar and him—and draping it around her shoulders, and his hands lingered, and she forgot how to breathe.

“Better?” he asked.

His voice was close. So close. She looked up, and he was right there, his face inches from hers, moonlight catching the dark intensity of his eyes.

“Yeah.” It came out as a whisper. “Better.”

Move, she told herself. Step back. Say something professional. Ask about the word count.

She didn’t move.

He didn’t either.

His hands were still on her shoulders, warm through the jacket, and she was suddenly, viscerally aware of how big they were. How easily they could span her waist. How they’d feel sliding into her hair, cupping her face, pulling her closer⁠—

This was insane. A week ago, it’d felt like he could barely look at her. A week ago, she was just the annoying deadline enforcer. What had changed?

But she knew what had changed. He’d started writing again. He’d started living again. And apparently, so had parts of her she’d thought were safely dormant.

“We should probably…” she started.

“Yeah,” he said. “We should.”

Except she didn’t move. Because just like years ago, here she was, caught in the magic that was Nate Rivers.

“Livvie.” His voice was rough. Almost hoarse. “I need to tell you something.”

“Okay.”

His thumb moved. A brush against her collarbone, so light she might have imagined it. Except she didn’t imagine the way her whole body turned hot.

“I haven’t felt like this in a long time.” His eyes searched her face. “I’m not sure I’ve ever felt like this.”

Her heart was pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears. “Like what?”

“Like I want—” He stopped. His jaw tightened. She watched a muscle flex there, and even that—even that—made her entire body simmer. “Like I want things I’m not sure I’m allowed to want.”