“That isnotthe kind of practice I meant, Brewer.” He propped himself up on one elbow. “I meant sex. With you.”
“I know.” I pushed back a lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead—which was becoming my favorite new hobby. “And yes, there’ll be plenty of opportunities for that, too. I want to keep doing this. You and me. I can’t seem to stop myself.”
Delaney looked at me for a long moment, then settled himself against my side with a little huff that made me laugh. “Good.”
We fell silent, the easy comfort between us both surprising and… not.
It felt natural to be here with him, holding him, our bodies still humming with aftershocks of pleasure.
It wasn’t until the night deepened around us that reality began to seep back in.
Delaney had a life waiting for him outside Copper County. A career that would take him to Costa Rica and beyond. A plan for his future that likely didn’t include a small-town contractor with a complicated past who both wanted to build things that lasted… and also hadn’t let himself put down roots.
But even knowing all that—even being fucking terrified of that—I still couldn’t bring myself to walk away from him again. Not when he fit so perfectly against me. Not when being with him made me feel more like myself than I had in years.
I’d compared him to a hurricane, and I’d meant it. But I was beginning to realize that some storms changed your landscape forever.
So, no, I wouldn’t give up Delaney.
Not yet.
Not until I had to.
Not until he made me.
And maybe, a voice in my brain whispered, not even then.
CHAPTERFIFTEEN
DELANEY
When I pulledmy little Audi into a spot on Weaver Street Monday morning, Marjorie had been chattering at me through my car’s speaker for five full minutes.
“And Amber dug up some really interesting background info, not on Harmon specifically but on his company?—”
“Sorry, Marjorie,” I interrupted as I shifted into park. “I’ve gotta go. I’ll read her email when I get home.”
“And when will that be?” she demanded. “Delaney, do you want to finish writing this story or not?”
“Did your research assistant find proof that Empire Ridge set up Anthony Harmon?” I demanded.
Marjorie was silent for a moment. “Well, no, but?—”
“Then, I can’t finish, can I?” I replied.
“Delaney—”
I grimaced. I could hear the frustration in her voice, and I knew whatever she said next would involve Costa Rica, my schedule, and something along the lines of “what the fuck is going on with you this week?”
I also knew—or was, like,ninety-five percent sureI knew—how I’d respond, but I wasn’t quite ready to have that conversation yet.
Especially not when my sister was waiting for me at the bakery down the street.
“Talk soon, Marjorie,” I said, and then I disconnected and stepped out onto the sidewalk.
The truth was, very little had changed for me in the past week… at least on the surface. I still lived in my mostly renovated house on the shores of Copper Lake, was still trying to write my Empire Ridge article, was still talking to various Coppertians to learn as much as I could about E. Winters and her Jean. But below the surface, the tectonic plates of my life had rearranged themselves completely.
I’d gone to book club last Wednesday—me, voluntarily mingling with Coppertians!— and loved it. I’d petted Teeny twice without having heart palpitations. And I’d spent every night with Brewer—sometimes having deep discussions, often laughing while we ate pizza, and always curled up, cum-drunk and satisfied, when we finally fell asleep.
