Did he pack light when he left California? Maybe he has weird shit hanging on his walls, or maybe there’s a photo of him and a girl on the dresser.
That thought alone moves my feet the last few steps. I reach for the door and ease it open, wincing as the hinges squeak. I hold my breath as I step in, though it’s not like it’s illegal. Technically, Iownthis house and he’s the tenant, so I have the right to enter.
Something like that.
Stepping over the threshold is like stepping through a time machine, and the memories hit me square in the chest.
If these walls could talk, they’d have quite the stories. Explicit stories.
Checking over my shoulder, I decide it’s safe for another minute. My heart hammers as I tiptoe around the queen bed—still covered with the same green-plaid bedspread.
Nan truly didn’t touch this room.
I run my fingers over the perfectly tucked bedspread. I spent so many hours lying here, staring up at the ceiling, complaining about school, about Danny, wishing away the days until I was graduated and free.
It smells good, too, like leather and cedarwood. I lean down to sniff the bedspread. He definitely uses a room spray or something. It’s intoxicatingly masculine-smelling.
There’s no suitcase on the floor, and when I open the closet door, his clothes are hung in even rows. His wardrobe couldn’t bemore opposite mine, but I’ll never complain about the way his black jeans hug his ass.
That’s my dirty little secret, though.
A pair of running shoes and leather tennis shoes line the wall next to the tiny closet. I never understood how men survive with fewer than five pairs of shoes.
I shut the door, moving along. There’s not much to look at. It’s all pretty tidy, and the only other piece of furniture in here is the long pine dresser.
My lips curl into a smile when I see the single picture frame sitting in the corner. It’s a black-and-white photo of Jesse and Tank sitting on the beach—a rocky beach, the Pacific Ocean, presumably, in the background. Jesse with his signature smirk and Tank’s tongue hanging out. Carefree and happy. I pick it up gingerly, running my fingertip over Jesse’s face, lost in the moment.
“Penelope Hanson.” Jesse’s husky growl startles me, and I drop the frame on the dresser, jumping back, only to stumble onto his bed.
I clutch my chest like it will help settle my thumping heart. Heat rushes up my neck, covering my cheeks, but there’s nowhere to hide—I’m caught.
Still on the bed, my mouth cracks open as I nervously glance up at Jesse. He’s chill and coy as ever, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. His cheeks are rosy too—from the cold—and his forearms flex in a way that shouldn’t be so sexy. A mischievous grin spreads across that perfect mouth when he notices me staring.
“You scared the shit out of me,” I stammer, my mind running through a million excuses, but I come up empty as he watches me like a hunter stalking their prey.
He moves into the room, eyes tracking me in a way that feels seductive. Maybe it’s just my racing heart telling me that. He stops in front of the dresser.
“I didn’t take you as a trespasser. Tsk-tsk.” His voice is low and smooth.
“I’m not.” I bite my lip and mentally curse the pulse moving lower into my core. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come in here without asking.”
Jesse picks up the silver frame I was looking at, studying it for a moment before his gaze catches mine. My lungs constrict in this quiet space. There’s only feet between us, but somehow every inch feels thick with tension. I prop myself up on the bed, my arms heavy against the billowy comforter. My body has no intention of moving.
“It wouldn’t be the first time you trespassed.” He sets the photo down.
“We were pretty devious, weren’t we?” I let out a quiet chuckle.
“It was one of the hardest things I ever had to do,” Jesse says, his voice strained, sexy.
“What, keeping your horny teenage self under control?” I tease, cocking my head to the side, baiting him for an answer.
He shakes his head ever so slightly, a lock of dark hair falling loosely over his forehead. “Pretending every single day that I wasn’t fuckingobsessedwith you.”
My breath stutters. I stare at his mouth, afraid to believe the words that came out. Afraid to believe what they might mean.
We stay staring, and something silent passes between us. A dare. A plea. I don’t even know what I’m asking for—but I know I need it.
I need his hands on me. I need to kiss him, in this room, where it all started.
