And now it’s in my hands.
She was here. Again. Close enough to touch my shit. Close enough to sit on my seat, probably wriggling just to see if I’d feel it in my dick.
I exhale slow and start to close the bag.
That’s when I see a faint smudge of pink gloss stamped right on the painted ribcage of the Reaper on my tank.
Right over the heart.
I freeze.
She kissed my fucking bike.
Left her mark like she owns it.
I close the bag slowly. Not because I’m calm. Because if I move too fast, I’ll do something I can’t undo.
Like track her down, drag her somewhere dark and make her say please.
Kiss her so fucking hard she forgets how to write.
Shit.
I don’t even like gummy candy.
But she got the rest right.
Thoughtful. Disturbing. Infuriating.
Hot.
Fucking hell.
She leaves me snacks like I’m a stray she’s trying to train.
But I’m not the one who’s going to beg.
Chapter Nine
Delilah
I don’t leave a note on Rhys’s windshield. Not yet. I’m not ready. We’re not ready. I haven’t gathered enough intel to tailor the vibe. What if he’s a man who appreciates poems, not puns? What if he hates glitter? What if my handwriting disappoints him and he psychoanalyzes my looped y’s and the way I cross my t’s like a desperate woman craving structure?
I need more time.
So I’m parked a totally reasonable distance from his car, steeped in the warm, slightly sweaty cocoon of my own anticipation. My engine’s off. Air off. Sanity long gone. I’m melting into the faux leather like a tragic milkshake of lust and longing.
My fries are long gone, the evidence crumpled in a greasy brown bag on the passenger seat. I tried to eat slowly, to savor, but you can’t chew thoughtfully and spy at the same time. It’s rude.
I’ve switched back to my sunhat. I’d been wearing Jett’s hat earlier, but it felt wrong. Disrespectful. Like bringing your ex’s hoodie to a first date. This is Rhys’s time. Rhys’s moment. Rhys, who probably drinks black coffee in silence and eats yogurt with a tiny silver spoon and reads nonfiction books for fun.
Still, my fingers keep drifting down to the hat in my lap, tracing the rim like it holds the answers to the universe. I fold it. Unfold it. Think about putting it on again and then whisper a quiet “no” to myself like that’s a healthy thing to do alone in a car at dusk.
It’s 7:03 when he finally emerges from the building. I know because I’ve checked the clock twelve times in the last two minutes.
And God.
Rhys in slacks is a religious experience. A low-simmering, high-functioning, fully buttoned-up wet dream. The sweater’s gone, which means the air conditioning must’ve finally stopped trying to kill him in his office. His shirt sleeves are rolled, exposing just enough forearm to undo a girl’s entire personality, and he moves with that slow, efficient grace that makes me imagine things like kitchen counters and wine stains and dinner parties where he says, “She’s a little weird, but she’s mine.”
