I have to turn away from India so she doesn’t see that I have a raging hard-on that’s barely contained by my jeans. The sight of her wearing my clothes, the petite curves of her body hidden beneath the fabric, makes me want nothing more than to pull them off of her layer by layer until there’s nothing between us but the air.

I can’t do that.

To do that would be a mistake on par with falling for her in the first place, all those years ago.

I tried to change fucking everything for her, and she rejected me anyway.

Standing on her front porch, that goddamn bouquet clutched in my hands, and she’s shaking her head at me, eyes shining with tears.

“It’s just not going to work out between us, Dawson,” she said, each word landing like a body blow. “We’re too…different. We want different things.”

“Fuck,” I’d whispered under my breath, my mind struggling to wrap around what she was saying. “You’re joking, right? You’re kidding. This is—”

“I’m not kidding, Dawson.”

And then—Jesus, the worst part of it all—the limo pulling up to the curb behind my beat-up truck, Eric Powell climbing out in a tuxedo he probably owned because his family was so rich, and striding up next to me with an even bigger bouquet.

“You trying to steal my date, Flint?” His eyes were narrow and cruel, and my throat tightened.

“Fuck no,” I spat at him, and then I dropped the flowers on the porch and turned away.

That was the last time I saw India Patrick until she crashed her car into the ditch thirty feet from my driveway.

And now…

Holy shit, she’s even hotter than she was back then. I bet she tastes just the same, though, minty and spicy and—

“You trying to steal my groceries?” Her voice comes from behind me, from the kitchen door, and it’s a knife twist in my heart, but my cock jumps anyway.

“What the hell did you even buy? An onion and Oreos? What is this stuff?”

She rolls her eyes. “Random stuff that my mom wanted.”

“What am I supposed to make with this?”

“You’re cooking?” Her eyes sparkle in the recessed lighting. It cost a damn fortune, but it’s paying off right now.

I look out the kitchen window. It’s still a whiteout. “Can’t leave. Nothing else to do.”

The silence hangs between us, and I’d bet all the money I have that we’re both thinking the same thing.

“Sure,” India says, like she’s not convinced.

I pull the onion out of the bag. “I guess we’ll start with this.”

She opens her hands. “It’s all yours.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m sliding two plates of chicken and rice and hot peppers across the kitchen island and taking a seat. India has watched with rapt attention the entire time, leaning her hip against the counter, asking neutral questions and driving me fucking crazy with her very presence.

She doesn’t hesitate over the food, stabbing a hearty bite of chicken with her fork and popping it into her mouth.

“This is so good.”

“It’s just chicken.”

“Yeah, but with spices.”

I let out a short laugh. “You really don’t cook, do you?”

She shakes her head. “No. I never…got into it. Plus, where I live now—” India breaks off, glancing down at her lap. “In the city, there’s a ton of cheap takeout. I usually go for that kind of thing after work.”

“What city?” My voice is soft, and I hate how this information has taken me aback. What, did I think she’d somehow moved to the city without me knowing?

“Charlotte.”

It’s three hours and a million miles away, as far as I’m concerned. It’s the biggest city in the state. People from here go there and they never come back.

Except for on the holidays, when they then do stupid shit like crash into the ditch outside my house.

“How long have you been there?”

How long has she been that close, yet that far?

“Since I graduated.”

“For work?”

“Yeah. A PR firm.”

The thought of her going into the office every day in one of those tailored working woman outfits makes me hard again.

“Wow. You’ve really made something out of yourself.”

The corners of her mouth turn down, and she sets her fork on the edge of her plate.

“You know, I didn’t…” She takes a breath that sounds like she’s on the verge of tears, but then she goes on. “This is really good. Thanks for the food. You didn’t have to do this,” she says, her voice so soft it’s almost inaudible.

“I’m glad you made it out.” There’s an acidic edge to my tone, and I fucking hate it. I hate it. It usually serves me well in the bar when I’m dealing with nut jobs and drunks, but India…we were both young. Yeah, she broke my damn heart. We’re not those people anymore.

“Yeah, well, it turns out I didn’t.”

Her voice is strung tight with emotion, but I can’t say what she’s feeling.

“You’ve got a career. You’re just back for the holidays, right?”

“Yes.” It comes out as a whisper, and she clears her throat. “I didn’t plan to run into you.”

“Why would you?”

“Because—” She sets her jaw. “Because I’ve thought of you every day since—”

“We don’t have to recap.”

She slaps one hand down on the island’s surface. “Every day, Dawson.”

“Why are you telling me this now?”

She doesn’t answer with words. She leans over, takes my face in both of her hands, and kisses me.

Hard.