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My phone vibrates with a text.
Chris:Wanna go out later?
I bite my lower lip. Chris and I have been sort of dating. Sort of, as in, going out on weekends and making out on the back of his Harley. Jenny says I’m more attracted to his bike than him, and that might be true. I like the thrill of doing things I shouldn’t be doing, like stealing sips from Dad’s liquor, coming home after curfew, and kissing Dad’s best friend.
It’s a character flaw.
Anyway, Chris and I still haven’t gone all the way and I don’t want to. I feel like if I do, I’ll be letting myself down or something. Not that he’s been pressuring me or anything, but he can’t be patient forever, no matter how much he enjoys the make-out and groping sessions.
It isn’t right to lead him on, though, which is why I need to make a decision. Either end this or go all the way in.
The main reason I said yes to Chris in the first place, aside from his negotiating skills, is because I needed to move on.
I needed to find someone else to fill up the emptiness.
There’s one tiny problem, though. I hadn’t thought that the previous occupier of that spot, Nate, would refuse to leave his place for someone else.
But I’ve been pushing him out gradually. Soon, I’ll get completely rid of him and maybe someone who actually likes me, like Chris, will fill it.
So I type with shaky hands.
Me:Sure!
Chris:Can I come to your house or will your father rearrange my features?
I smile, remembering Dad’s actual threats when Chris thought it was a good idea to pick me up on his bike.
Me:He’s working over the weekend and won’t be home until late. We’re safe.
Chris:Can’t wait to see you, beautiful.
My heart shrinks at that word.
Beautiful.
Why does it hurt so much to hear Chris say it? Probably because he’s not the one I want to hear it from.
Yeah, no. I’m not going there.
I go back to picking up the shards of glass when movement outside catches in my peripheral vision.
It can’t be.
I lift my head so fast, I’m surprised I don’t snap a tendon. My eyes track him as he makes his way from the garden to the front door.
It’s him.
It’s really him.
Nate.
My fingers falter and something stings my skin. I must’ve cut myself on the glass, but I don’t pay attention to it as I stare at the man whose long legs eat up the distance in no time.
Even the way he walks is unique. Only, he doesn’t walk, he strides, always with some sort of purpose. His movements are purposeful, confident, and so damn masculine. Everything about him is manly, hard, and tenacious. It’s present in every line of his face, every flutter of his lashes.
It’s in the way his broad shoulders stretch his tailored black jacket. The put-together look doesn’t fool me, though, because I’m well aware of what lurks beneath it.
Muscles. Whether it’s his chest, abdomen, biceps, or strong thighs. I know because I’ve watched him box with Dad many times, half-naked, and he gave me my first view of male beauty. I’ve seen his cut abdomen and bulging muscles. I’ve seen his fluid movements and quick reflexes.
