Chapter 9

Adelaide

“Friends don’t do that,” I pant as I push him away.

My eyes never leave his lips, and I feel the brush of his tongue deep in my soul as it licks away my taste. He’s temptation personified, and thinking around him is hard enough without his hands and mouth on me.

“I don’t want to be your friend.”

My eyes dart up to his, my heart cracking at his words.

He reaches for my hand, and I pull away from him, taking a staggering step back.

“I want so much more from you,” he qualifies.

“You don’t date,” I counter.

“I can try.” The hope in his eyes almost has me agreeing, but I know his kind. Even if I didn’t have firsthand experience, I couldn’t take a chance on someone with a greater chance of hurting me than being able to live up to my expectations, but, man, did I want him to be that person.

“Try?” I don’t bother to hide the frown that draws my eyebrows in. “You want me to risk my heart—my virginity—on you trying?”

“Virgin?” He shakes his head, and I bristle at the disbelief in his voice.

“Yes. You don’t have to say it like that. They exist. We aren’t unicorns.”

“Just as mystical these days,” he mutters, taking a step back.

I expected a maniacal grin to turn his lips up, expected the thrill of conquering a challenge no other man has managed to fill his eyes, but he seems more turned off by it than anything. It makes no sense, and that annoys me even more. It’s unexpected, and makes me feel like he thinks I’m unworthy of the fight.

“How does that happen at…what, twenty? Twenty-one?”

“Twenty-one,” I confirm. “My father is also a pastor, so if there’s any other reason for you to run away scared, that should be the icing on the cake.”

“Wow,” he mutters. “Let’s head back to my truck.”

He turns in the direction we just came, and I follow.

“So you can take me home?” I frown at his back, feeling all of the rejection I’d laid at his feet ten minutes ago.

“So I can take a seat. You just put a lot on my plate.”

He doesn’t take my hand on the way back, but the warmth of his touch does rest against my lower back after my flip flop catches on a twig and I nearly stumble. The grasp of his fingers on my hips when he lifts me to take a seat back on the tailgate is equally attentive. The sincerity in his eyes as he watches me watch him has to be one of the most confusing things I’ve ever experienced.

I remain silent as he joins me, not bothering to keep the distance he did earlier, but not encroaching so much that I feel crowded. For long minutes, he stares out at the water as the sun gives way to the darkness of the cool Georgia night.

“Did I freak you out?” I can no longer stand the quiet. It brings racing thoughts and self-doubt. It also brings hope—the worst thing of all.

“You’re different.”

I sigh, exasperated. “You need to expand your vocabulary.”

“Unique,” he says, finding my eyes.

“Peculiar,” I counter. “Bizarre.”

“Extraordinary,” he whispers, leaving me breathless and a little stunned.

The same pull I felt moments ago out by the water tugs again at my chest. My hands demand I touch him. My lips tingle for the pressure of his. Shifting my weight, I place my hands under my thighs, fighting a shiver.

“Are you cold?”

“Not really,” I say, shaking my head.

I wait for him to wrap his arms around me…wait for him to turn into the player I’ve made him out to be, but he doesn’t. Not only does he keep his distance, he jumps down from the truck, creating more. My brow furrows as I move to get down, both surprised and confused by his actions. Figuring he’s ready to take me home and lose my number, he shocks me once more when he holds his hand up to stop me.

“I’m just going to turn the key over so we can listen to some music.”

Swinging my legs over the end of the tailgate, I jerk, startled by him opening the back window. A moment later, soft music filters through. It’s not loud enough to make out a distinct beat or lyrics, but I no longer feel like I’m alone in the dark with him.

When he climbs up beside me, I hate the distance between us, the way his thigh is no longer touching mine.

That’s what I get for being ungrateful for having something when I have it, is what my mother would tell me.

“I’m sorry,” he says out of nowhere.

I shake my head, rejecting his apology. Regret is the last thing I need.

“It was just a kiss.” As I say the words, my breasts grow heavier at the memory of his touch. “No big deal.”

“That kiss was a big deal, but that’s not what I’m talking about. The way I talked to you at that bonfire was out of line.”

I nod in agreement, because it was. I don’t need to drive the point home any further.

“I didn’t know,” he mutters. “I thought you were playing hard to get.”

“I’m not a nun or a prude, Axton, but you shouldn’t say things like that to anyone, especially if you don’t even know their name.” I shake my head, wondering how someone could even think it was good idea.

“And I shouldn’t have attacked you tonight.” His apology is sincere, yet still laced with mischief. “Old habits are going to be super hard to break.”

My heart skips at the implications, at the hint of him changing, and I shake my head. I can’t allow those thoughts to enter my already muddled mind.

“It was a nice kiss,” I cajole.

“My hands on you,” he adds.

I ache for him.

The hands in question scrape over the top of his head. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.”

I chuckle, my only outlet for the uncomfortable energy forming around us.

“Which is nuts,” he continues. “It’s not like my hands haven’t been on hundreds of tits.”

I clear my throat, distressed at his information dump. I try to tamp down the anger bubbling to the surface. Does this man not have a filter? Or does he just like to say things to keep me from getting close? I know he’s a playboy. Anyone with internet access and five minutes of free time can get a very clear picture of how Axton goes through women. What’s concerning is why it hurts my feelings so much.

“Get over it,” I say, feigning nonchalance. “It’s not like you’re the first guy to touch my boobs.”

“You said—”

“I said I wasn’t a nun.”

His gaze darts back down to my chest, and I don’t miss the twitch at the corner of his left eye. I turn my head, looking out over the water, and let him stew in what appears to be jealousy.

Doesn’t feel so great when the shoe is on the other foot, does it?

“Recent boyfriend?” By the tone of his voice, I can tell he really wants to know but hates himself for asking.

“High school,” I answer. “Senior year.”

“Tell me about him,” he insists.

I look back at him. “Really? We’re going to trade love stories? You go first.”

“That would be the shortest story of my life.”

I huff a humorless laugh. “I doubt that. You forget all your escapades are fodder for the masses—public and often.”

He shifts his weight, either uncomfortable or annoyed. “I fuck, Adelaide. I’ve done it more times than I can count, but love has never been involved.”

“Okay.” An eyebrow raises before I can stop it, judgment clear on my face.

What else can I say to that? It’s not front page news. His sexual adventures might as well be videotaped and emailed to the student body as a whole with how public they are. I cringe at the notion that there’s a very good possibility a video of him having sex does exist.

“Tell me about him,” he urges.

“He’s not important.”

“He hurt you,” he persists.

“He disappointed me. He wanted more than I could give him. He wasn’t interested in what was left over.”

He mulls that over for a moment. “He wanted to marry you?”

I laugh. “No. We were seventeen. Marriage wasn’t on either of our radars. He wanted sex. Why would you think marriage?”

He shrugs, a small smile playing on his lips. “I didn’t figure your daddy would let you date a boy like that.”

“You, being a guy, should know every boy is like that.” I lower my voice, attempting one with more baritone. “Him being raised in the church doesn’t make his urges go away.”

“He pulled that shit with you?”

“Would you expect anything less?”

He shakes his head. “I guess not.”

“I did.” I crack my neck, tears stinging the backs of my eyes.

I’m not saddened by Jason’s memories; it’s knowing Axton won’t be willing to wait either. No matter how hard he tries, how much he may want to right now, waiting won’t seem like the best choice the next time a half-naked, willing and ready woman walks up and offers herself to him.

“Let’s make a playlist,” he says, scooting closer and holding his phone up so I can see his music list.

Thankful from the reprieve of reliving the worst year of my life, I lean in closer.

“That one.” I jab at the title, adding it to the playlist.

We pick at least a dozen songs—more than we’ll have time to listen to—and keep scanning, adding more, when a notification rolls down from the top.

Brooke: Hey, baby. Miss u. See you soon.

He swipes it away without missing a beat. He’s unfazed, but I stiffen beside him, the realization that friends is all we can ever be hitting me like a blow to the chest.

When he takes me home thirty minutes later, the soft brush of his lips on my cheek confirms he’s going to break my heart…even as friends.

I’m not one to have regrets. I live by the philosophy that owning your choices is part of life, but as his taillights disappear, I regret the kiss. Touching my lips to his, the memory, the firsthand knowledge of what he tastes like, is a million times worse than the longing I would have had had it never happened.