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Her touch burned through me, my pulse racing as her fingertips scraped over my skin.
I clenched my jaw as my eyes met hers. I stepped away, breaking her touch, my heart racing. I couldn’t do this, not tonight, not ever.
“It’s late, and I have a lot of work to do still.” I forced a smile, pretending to be calm. Inside, I was dying. “Goodnight, Storee. I’ll see you tomorrow for lunch.”
I turned and walked away, taking a deep breath as I put the trees between us.
I’d made the right choice.
I’d done the right thing.
Staying away was the right choice because she was getting under my skin.
I had to fight the hunger, the need to feel her lips on mine, the burning desire to feel her body in my arms.
Stay away.
I turned and looked at her window as I had done when this night began.
Watching.
My cock was throbbing, my heart hammered in my chest. My mouth was dry, and all I could think about was her naked body, her soft lips, her smooth skin.
I could still feel her touch on my skin, the sensation of her fingers burning into me.
I had to get away. I was losing my fucking mind.
Chapter 6
Storee
I walked up to the entrance of The Porthole Diner—a popular hangout for the locals that the flood of tourists overlooked because it appeared like a place the Board of Health should have condemned years ago. It was a strange and peculiar little spot, with faded wooden panels and peeling paint, the windows streaked with grime and sea salt, and the door hung on rusting hinges. But the food was good.
And I knew exactly where they got the fish. Fresh.
As I ascended the somewhat rickety staircase and adjusted my slim skirt, I suddenly wished I’d gone with one that was a bit longer and dowdier. Maybe I should have just stuck with my go-to jeans and paint-splattered tee. It wouldn’t do to appear at all sexy around Locke Hartwell. The man was overprotective and would worry about unwanted attention I could get just by walking down the street.
I stood in the doorway, looking at my reflection for the briefest of seconds. I worked hard to love my body, to appreciate my beauty, but it was hard whenever I was around Locke. I suddenly felt like I was stepping back into my awkward puberty years. Although my outfit may have been too sexy, it was impeccable—a black blouse and gray skirt from a secondhandstore that had cost less than this meal was going to, even though it was more than I usually spent on clothing. One of my only necklaces, which had belonged to my mother, rested against my collarbone. The moonstone pendant was the only thing I had on that was of any real monetary value.
My mother had died at a young age, and my father had been busy building his name for the Godwin family and was hardly ever around. My father wasn’t high enough up the chain of command to provide much more than a roof over our heads. Every man for himself was the way I was brought up. Sure, we’d had moments when we were flush with money, but then my father seemed to always make a bad business deal that would cost us everything.
Up and down. Down and up.
A yo-yo of have or have not.
Story of my life.
I’d been cutting coupons since I could hold the scissors safely in my hands, and my adult life hadn’t changed anything.
I opened the door and pasted a smile on my face. The restaurant choice had been mine—it was the cheapest place in Heathens Hollow since Locke steadfastly refused to eat at a fast food joint, and I insisted on us splitting the bill. It was a battle fought and eventually won on my part, but Locke never liked the idea of going Dutch. Maybe it was the fact that if he paid, our casual twice a month lunches would feel like a date to me. And a date with my deceased father’s best friend wasn’t an option.
I was overdressed, but I had to do something to counter his casual elegance as his shirt stretched across the breadth of his shoulders, hugging the bulging muscles of his arms as he leaned forward to reach for his coffee cup.
Conservatively cropped black hair and thick black eyebrows framed eyes darker than any man ought to be allowed to have.He was perpetually tanned due to his Mediterranean heritage. He was tall, broad, and solid, in every possible way.
Locke Hartwell was hard and serious—except when it came to me.
He’d always had a soft spot for me. I used to watch him when I was barely eighteen—before I lived on my own and still resided under my father’s roof. I had seen the softening that took over his expression whenever he looked at me. His whole demeanor changed when he was around me. The innocent love and warmth in his eyes was almost painful to see.
