“I should probably go,” he says.
My mind is so fuzzy from his touch that it takes me a moment to decipher his words. “What? Why?” I don’t care that I sound desperate.
A smile touches his lips. “If I stay, I’m going to kiss you again,” he says, making my heart rate ratchet up a notch. “And I don’t think that’s the best idea.”
“Why not?” My voice is breathy.
“Because you might decide later that it was a mistake.”
“And you won’t?”
His shoulder lifts in a shrug, not an answer.
“Shouldn’t I be the one to make that decision?” I ask.
He shakes his head, eyes soft. “Not this time, Fin.”
“I know what I want,” I say, adamant. But I’m not actually sure I do. I know what mybodywants right now, but my heart is thumping, equal parts excited and terrified. My mind is screaming that I wouldn’t be able to handle a future rejection from Grey, someone who is so intricately involved in my life, always there for me when I need him.
He stands, dropping my feet, and leans in to press a chaste kiss to my brow. He lingers there, says into my hair, “If you still want to kiss me later, just call. Just like if you need me to carry you. But only ask me if you want me to. I don’t think I could handle it any other way.”
His words settle heavily, and when he pulls back, he holds my gaze for a long moment, a thick, tenuous want settling in the space between us.
Swallowing, I nod. “And if I asked you now?”
His body goes ramrod straight, and I feel his heart pounding fast against my shoulder. His mind may be unsure, but his body wants this as much as mine does. Finally, he shakes his head, his stubble catching in my throat.
“Don’t ask me, Finley. My self-control is holding on by a thread.”
“There are scissors in the drawer beside your hip,” I say.
He groans, pulling back. But some of the tension has left him and is replaced with a smile.
I stare up at him. He’s taller than me even when I’m sitting on the counter. “I won’t ask tonight.”
And as much as I want to, I know this is the right decision. Everything has happened so fast. It’s only been a few weeks, andwe still have to carry out this charade for a few more. And after that, we will always be in each other’s lives, bound together by Holden. If we’re going to do this, we need to be sure it’s what we want.
He nods, says, “Good night, Fin.”
“Night, Grey.”
I watch him as he makes his way across my small apartment, something nagging at the back of my mind. When his hand is on the door handle, I ask, “Grey, are you sure you didn’t say something about a woman the night of Holden and Wren’s wedding?”
My heart beats in my throat, and my breath hitches as he hesitates at the door, body going rigid. I want him to say it’s me that he was talking about that night. I want him to say there’s more between us than just attraction, that I’m finally enough for someone. For him.
He doesn’t turn around. Just says, “You were drunk, Finley,” and lets himself out the door, leaving me alone in my apartment, still holding my breath.
I would have dreamedof Finley last night if I’d been able to sleep. I know I would have. But the fact remains that I didn’t sleep, and now I have a twenty-four-hour shift ahead of me, and I think I actually might die.
The day goes by excruciatingly slowly. We have almost no calls, so I try to work out to avoid thoughts of Finley. Of kissing her. Of her asking me to kiss her again. It doesn’t work.
I try to nap, much to the humor of the rest of my company. Heather offers to tuck me in like she does with her toddler. Nothing helps. I don’t sleep, and there’s a restless energy pulsing beneath my skin. I want to see her, but in another, much more real, sense, I hope I never see her again.
The fire station smells like Lysol, and there’s a sterility about it that usually doesn’t bother me. But right now, it’s making me itch, like my skin is cracking and peeling. The kitchen looks too cold and impersonal, all stainless steel and white tile. The recliners I usually find comfortable suddenly make my back hurt. The overhead lighting feels harsh, making a headache formbetween my eyes. I feel everything too much, like even the walls around me are squeezing closer.
“What’s wrong with you?” Jacob asks when I start pacing the living room. He’s watching TV from his recliner, already finished with his chores for the day. Heather is working out in the gym, and I think Tom is still mopping the dorms, so it’s just us out here.
“Nothing.”
