Page 52 of Cherry Picking

“Okay,” I say. “Understood.”

We drive back to Henderson without music. Briggs offers, twice, to have my car towed and fixed. When we get out of his rented SUV, I stumble over a root in the driveway and cringe at myself.

“Let me drive you home?” he asks, one last time. “It’s really no problem.”

I give him a tight smile. “That’s okay. The alternator and I have an understanding. It’ll be fine for another week or so.”

“Good night, then,” he murmurs, his voice sanded down to nothing.

“Good night.”

He stands there with a hand on the back of his neck while I get in my Corolla. The car starts on the second try, loyal to the end. I back out of the driveway and don’t cry, because there’s nothing to cry about.

Nothing happened. Briggs made sure of that.

That’s the danger of letting someone see you want something, isn’t it? I’ve spent my whole adult life setting my wants down gently, out of reach, before anyone can judge me for holding them. Tonight, for three minutes under a red light, I picked one up in front of a witness.

Lesson learned. Back on the shelf it goes.

CHAPTER 15

BRIGGS

Ifucked up majorly tonight.

I should’ve kissed Evie in the club. I should’ve done more than that. Maybe then I wouldn’t be sitting outside on the front porch, anxiously bouncing my knee, contemplating the meaning of existence.

I run a ragged hand through my hair. “This is bullshit.”

Shaking my head, I pull out my phone and search for the address I’ve used to mail her paychecks. When I plug it into Maps, I find it’s about a twenty-minute drive from here. She would have made it home already, then.

That means she’s probably tucked herself into bed by now. Probably cursed my name three times over, too.

Fuck. I jog to my SUV, wrench open the door, and shove myself inside. I’m not letting this mistake haunt me for the rest of my life. Not when there’s still time for me to fix it.

I told Evie that the distance and our circumstances were enough for us not to give in to temptation. But I haven’t wanted anyone the way I want her. Not in a long, long time.

She keeps me up at night. She makes me laugh. I want to be around her, even knowing I can’t be. Especially knowing I can’t be.

The fact that I’m this worried about ruining things tells me that it’d be worth it to try. That maybe kissing her is exactly what I need to kick my ass into gear.

Four songs later, after heavily speeding on the 215, I make it over to her apartment. She lives on the second floor, so I climb the outdoor stairs, knocking when I reach her front door. It’s robin’s-egg blue with a little bell on the front and a decorative sign that reads “Unholy Night.”

I tap my heel, waiting. Two minutes pass, then five, and she still hasn’t come to the door.

I know she’s here because her car is sitting right below me, parked inside two crookedly painted lines. I knock again, louder this time.

The door finally swings open.

Her mouth drops at the sight of me, but she doesn’t lower the giant canister she’s clutching in her fist. Shoulders tensed, locked and loaded.

“What the hell is that?” I ask.

Her head swivels to the side, registering the big red tube. She slowly lowers it, placing it on the console table behind her.

“Bear mace,” she replies.

I raise a brow. “That’s your weapon of choice?”