Inside, the house smells faintly of sawdust and the fresh paint from the doors we didn’t finish. I grab a hammer and nails, telling myself I’m going to start on the upstairs trim, but five minutes in, I’m standing at the workbench staring at nothing.
All I can see is her head tipping back when I kissed down her neck. The way her stomach tightened under my hand. The sound she made when she came, like she’d been holding it in for years.
I shake it off and start again, only to realize I’ve been holding the same nail without moving for God knows how long. My hands still remember her curves more than they remember the shape of a tool.
By the third time I mess up a cut, I drop the hammer and mutter, “Useless.”
Because right now, that’s what I am when it comes to anything except thinking about her.
I lean against the workbench, rubbing the back of my neck, sawdust clinging to my shirt.
This was supposed to be simple — play the part so she could land her deal, keep my hands to myself, and walk away clean when it was over.
But I can’t even pretend anymore.
Maybe I never could.
The truth is, she’s been in my head for years, long before the diner kiss, before the beach. I’ve just been lying to myself about it — the same way I lied to everyone else.
I think back to one night when Colton brought her to a Lawson family barbecue. She was wearing this little blue sundress, hair twisted up messily, laughing at something I’d said in the kitchen while Colton was outside. The sound of it hit me like a punch.
I remember gripping the edge of the counter, forcing myself to smile like it was nothing, and walking out the back door before I did something stupid — like kiss her right there with my brother only ten feet away.
And now? I’ve already crossed that line and burned the damn bridge behind me.
The part that scares me isn’t that I want her. It’s that I’m starting to think I don’t want to stop wanting her.
The buzz of my phone cuts through the quiet, rattling against the workbench.
I wipe my hands on a rag and pick it up. Unknown number, but I know who it is the second I read the message.
We should talk. —C
No hello. No context. Just that clipped tone I’ve known my whole life — the one Colton used before lowering his shoulder into a quarterback or lining up a hit in practice that would knock the wind out of me.
I stare at the words until the screen dims.
What could he possibly want to “talk” about?
My gut churns with the obvious answer — Lyla. Someone’s told him about the diner kiss, maybe even seen us leave together. Hell, maybe he’s already guessed it’s not just for show.
If that’s it, I know exactly how it’ll go. He’ll get that condescending smirk, tilt his head like I’m the family disappointment who just proved him right. And then he’ll tell me all the reasons I’m not good enough for her, starting with the fact that I’m his older brother and ending with the night Aaron died.
I set the phone down, but the thought sticks like a splinter under my skin. Colton is the only one besides me who knows what really happened that night. If he decides to throw that at Lyla — twist it so I’m the villain — she’ll believe him. Maybe not right away, but eventually.
He’s done it before. He knows how to land a hit you don’t feel until you’re already bleeding.
I lean my elbows on the workbench, pressing my hands into my eyes until I see white spots.
But then another thought hits — one that’s even stranger. What if it’s not about Lyla at all? Colton’s been in town for days and hasn’t made any real effort to see me. If he wanted a fight, he would’ve shown up here himself.
So why now?
The uneasy part of me is braced for an attack. But a quieter part… almost wonders if this is something else entirely.
I pick up the phone again, staring at that message like it’ll morph into an answer. It doesn’t.
Instead, all I can hear is the sound of the waves from earlier, the feel of Lyla’s fingers digging into my sides, and the way her voice cracked when she said my name.
