I shove my hands in my jacket pockets. “We got what we came for.”
“Sure,” she says, still not looking at me.
Her lips are a little flushed, and I can’t tell if it’s from the wind or because I kissed her like I meant it.
We walk toward my truck, boots crunching over the grit on the pavement. I want to tell her it was just for show. That it didn’t mean anything, but the lie would sit wrong in my mouth.
Instead, I open the passenger door and wait for her to climb in.
“Thanks for lunch,” she says finally, the words clipped.
I nod, shut the door, and circle to the driver’s side. My hands tighten on the steering wheel before I even start the engine.
The whole way back to the house, we don’t say another word.
But my mind keeps going back to the way she leaned in without hesitation. The way she tasted like coffee and something warm I couldn’t place.
If this is what one day of our public act feels like, I’m not sure I want to think about it for the weeks to come.
Chapter Seven
Lyla
The morning light spilling into my bedroom is too bright, too clean for the thoughts swirling in my head.
I keep telling myself it was just for show. That Damien kissed me because Morgan Price was standing there with her phone ready, and the whole diner was watching.
But my brain refuses to cooperate. Every time I blink, I see the way he closed that last inch between us. Feel the way his thumb brushed my cheekbone.
I try to drown it out by digging through my closet for “clothes I can ruin.” Which now, thanks to him, I can’t hear without thinking of something entirely different — something that makes my pulse tick up before I can shove the image away.
I tug on worn jeans and an old long-sleeve tee, telling myself it doesn’t matter what I wear because he’s not looking at me like that. He never has.
Except… that’s not entirely true.
The memory sneaks in before I can stop it:
Summer after sophomore year. Aaron had dragged me to the Lawson house to hang out, which meant hours of video games with Damien in the background, working on his truck in the driveway. I remember standing on the edge of the hood, watching him work — the easy strength in his hands, the way his dark hair fell over his brow.
He’d glanced up once, catching me staring, and for a moment something charged hummed in the space between us. Then his mouth had flattened, and he’d gone back to the engine without a word.
Two weeks later, Colton started walking me home from school. Colton, with his easy grin and sunny charm, who made me feel like I’d been chosen for something. It was easier to fall into step with him than to keep pining after the dark, mysterious cloud who clearly didn’t want me anywhere near him.
Only… I’d never really stopped wanting him.
I shake the thought off, grab my keys, and head for the door.
Across the street, the Lawson house looms with its peeling paint and weathered siding, Damien’s truck parked out front.
When I step onto the porch, I can see him through the open doorway, bent over the workbench, focused and silent. No Ronnie today. No buffer.
Perfect. Just perfect.
The creak of the porch step feels louder than it should.
Damien glances up when I step inside, eyes sweeping over me once before going back to the piece of trim he’s measuring. “You’re on time.”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” I say, setting my bag down.
